


There's a Hole In You and Me

by jackles67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackles67/pseuds/jackles67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November 2nd, 1983. Lawrence Kansas - Mary Winchester's attempt at a normal life is destroyed by a deal she made with a demon years earlier, and she returns to the hunter life to track him down with her 6 month old son in tow. She leaves her other son to be raised as a civilian by his father. June 1998, Camp Blackwater - Sam Campbell is on his first solo hunt, infiltrating a camp to find and destroy whatever's been killing innocent people for the past few decades. Unfortunately, his job is complicated by a certain Dean Winchester - a camp counselor who can't seem to keep his freckled nose out of Sam's business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Hole In You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> There's [art](http://lamapan.livejournal.com/9146.html)! Go check it out and leave lots of love because it's amazing and I'm so lucky to have gotten such a great artist. Also, this was betaed by [Tessa](http://dudenodudeyes.tumblr.com/) and [Amy](http://dimpleforyourthoughts.tumblr.com/) and I think they deserve a big portion of the credit for this ever getting finished, so you know, there's that.

November 2nd, 1983

Lawrence, Kansas

Mary takes Dean to say goodnight to his brother exactly like every other night, and just like every night, Dean lays a careful kiss on Sam’s forehead. Sam’s big dark eyes never leave his brother’s face - Dean is always the most interesting thing in the room.

John appears in the doorway, fresh out of his work clothes, in a rumpled US Marine Corps t- shirt. He was working late tonight, even missed dinner, and Dean runs into his arms like he hasn’t seen his dad in weeks. Mary doesn’t hold back a smile at the kid’s incessant enthusiasm, the way energy bubbles forth even when he’s half asleep on his feet.

It’s just past 8, which means past bedtime, so John takes Dean to brush his teeth and hear a

story before lights out.

Mary heads upstairs with a “be right up” from John. She checks the locks on the doors and windows on her way, a quick scan of the back yard and the usual pause to listen for any telltale strange noises, any crackling cold spots or rattling breath. Nothing. Like every night. She falls asleep almost instantly; nothing like a six month old baby and a four year old kid to provide the perfect, bone deep satisfied exhaustion.

The baby monitor wakes her, the sound of little Sammy’s cries metallic and distorted by the static.

“John?”

He’s not in the bed beside her and she sighs, blinking sleepily as she rolls out. He fell asleep in his chair. Again. He usually wakes himself up in the middle of the night, cold and uncomfortable, and crawls into bed to warm himself against her and then deny it ever

happened.

Mary rubs her eyes as she makes her way through the dark house to the nursery. John’s already there, facing away from the door and leaning over the crib.

“Is he hungry?” Mary asks. It sounds like he’s stopped crying.

“Shhh,” John answers.

“Okay,” she says, turning away. If John can get him back to sleep, there’ll be no argument from her.

She starts to head back to bed, but something stops her. Something’s not right.

The dim light they have at the end of the hall is flickering, buzzing lightly. Mary tamps down the gut reaction to grab some salt and a shotgun, instead walking steadily to the lamp and tapping it lightly. It stops flickering. Mary sighs.

From this end of the hallway, she can hear the TV from downstairs. John must’ve been watching when he fell asleep, not bothering to turn it off when he went up to handle Sammy.

She goes downstairs to turn it off and freezes.

John’s snoring in his chair.

Mary yells for Sam as she scrambles back up the stairs, down the hall, mind screaming faster, faster and finally into the nursery.

The man she’d mistaken for John is still there, still standing next to her son, and now she can see that he’s holding something out over Sam’s face.

The man is holding his slit wrist over her baby’s mouth, and there’s a steady drip, drip, drip of blood going straight between Sam’s tiny pink lips.

Mary screams, reaching for her gun, for her knife, for anything. She’s in her nightgown and her hands are empty, her mind a roaring blank.

The man turns at the sound of her scream and his eyes are as yellow as Mary knew they’d be, and the only thing she can think is “this is it, this is the moment, it’s finally here.”

He motions at her and suddenly there’s a deep gash along her stomach, not deep enough to be fatal but definitely serious. Another gesture and gravity inverts; she’s being dragged up the wall and onto the ceiling and she can’t stop screaming for John.

Yellow Eyes laughs and Mary’s going to kill him the second she gets herself off the ceiling. She shakes her arm, willing her bracelet to fall lower on her wrist where she can reach it. Almost... almost... there. It’s barely anything, but maybe if she can hold him off, she can -

He’s turning back to Sam, and then John is bursting into the room and Mary realizes he can’t see the demon. Yellow Eyes grins up at her and puts a finger to his lips and Mary finds she can’t scream, can’t even whimper.

John looks around, taking in the quiet room and Sam’s gurgles. He walks over to his son slowly, so slowly, as Yellow Eyes steps just out of his way.

Mary tries to scream, lungs burning, stomach wound a clean, near-blinding pain. She writhes and the blood soaks through her nightgown and starts to drip.

It drips inches from Sammy’s head and finally, finally John sees. He looks up and they stare at each other for a moment, Mary trying to break through Yellow Eyes’ grip, John frozen in terror.

He screams her name, voice hoarse with sleep or fear, screams “No,” and Mary’s eyes are burning with tears. This is it, she’s going to die and that demon is going to take her son and John will never, ever forgive her for this. He’ll know what she was and he’ll know why their son was taken and he’ll know it was all her fault.

The thought kicks her into action and she shakes her wrist again, and by some miracle the bracelet falls perfectly, the protection charm landing directly in her palm just as Yellow Eyes flicks his fingers again.

The ceiling bursts into flame around Mary as she closes her eyes and mumbles the spell. It’s a quick one, and it’s not strong enough to hurt the demon, but it is enough to free her. She falls to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and clothes, rolling into a defensive stance.

“John, take Sam now,” Mary orders, and John stares at her. “Do it now!”

John grabs him and runs out of the room. She can hear him handing the baby to Dean and telling him to go outside as she reaches behind the dresser, deep enough that it’s out of the way of small hands and curious husbands. The shotgun may not kill the demon, but iron in the shot might hurt him some.

He’s grinning at her as she backs out of the burning room, and she unloads her weapon into him, satisfied to see the smile wiped off his face. She turns and runs, almost knocking John off his feet as he climbs the stairs three at a time.

“Let’s go,” she calls, and he yells his assent.

It’s only later, after the fire department has put out the flames and Dean is asleep in Mrs. Rosewood’s guest bedroom, that reality starts to sink in. No more home, no more safety, no more family. Not if she wants to keep them alive.

***

June 1998  


Dean waves as his dad drives away, a cloud of dust following the Impala down the dirt road and out of sight. He breathes in the scent of trees, grass, dirt, and the lingering smokiness of campfires. He’s missed this place.

“Dude, you’re late! What happened?” Dave claps him on the back in greeting and Dean grins at him, slinging his duffel over his shoulder and falling into step beside his friend.

“School’s on a weird schedule, Dad wanted me to stay ‘til the end of the year.”

“Well, you missed the bonfire last night. Remember Rachel?”

Dean grins as Dave enthusiastically describes Rachel’s newly acquired assets. He’s sorry he missed the annual Counselor’s bonfire, a night of stolen whiskey and marshmallows before the kids arrive for the summer. The counselors usually arrive a week before the Campers, but Dean missed it in favor of finishing out the year at school. It’s no big deal, since he’s already gotten the training a few times and he volunteers as a lifeguard during the year, but it’s always fun to have a week out here with no kids to watch.

Dave accompanies Dean as he drops his bag on his usual bunk in their Cabin, right beside Dave’s own bunk. They’ve been paired up every year since Dean first became a counselor, and he’s glad no one’s had the wisdom to split them up.

The part of the cabin where the counselors sleep is technically in the same room as the campers’ bunks, but there’s a curtain that can be closed between the two spaces. More importantly, the counselors have their own back door and a small porch leading to a barely-visible path.

Dave and Dean, along with almost all of the camp’s other counselors, usually hold their counselors-only bonfire parties down at a clearing by the creek, and this path leads directly to that spot. It’s the reason Dean’s glad Dave managed to secure Skunk Cabin again this year.

The campers start arriving about an hour after Dean’s finished putting his things away and greeted the rest of his fellow counselors. They all stand out in the big field next to the dirt parking lot, holding clipboards and looking responsible, reassuring anxious parents. Dave keeps nudging Dean whenever Rachel bends down to help a kid with his bag or something and Dean resists the urge to smack his friend upside the head.

They get their campers in order, bring them to the cabin and manage to keep straight faces as they answer the inevitable question of their cabin’s name.

“Oh, all the cabins are named after local wildlife,” Dean says, and hopes he’s the only one who can hear Dave’s soft snort behind him. “Definitely not because there’s a skunk nest under the cabin or anything.” The boys all eye the cabin warily.

The campers leave their bags unpacked and everyone heads over to the big hall for the Welcome assembly and dinner. Dean and Dave spend the walk over impressing upon the campers the importance of trying to win the “Cleanest Cabin” award. They hint heavily at bribes of candy and junk food if the boys win enough times.

***

Sam goes over the details of the case in his head as he walks up the dirt road to the camp. Mary dropped him off a little ways up the road, concerned her car might be recognized. They’re on a few Wanted lists at the moment. It’s time they changed vehicles - rule number 7 of hunting: never keep a house or car long enough to be recognized - but she waited until this case presented itself: the perfect case for Sam’s first solo job.

He breathes in deep as he walks down the dirt road, head tilted back and turning to take in the scenery, a ridge of craggy mountains barely visible above the trees. The trees are tall here - tall enough that Sam gets dizzy looking up at the tops - and eerily silent. He’s pretty sure there should be chattering squirrels or birds or something, but all he can hear is the distant roar of water and the occasional rustle of wind through branches. It’s not until he turns the last bend in the road that he even knows he’s arrived.

The noisy milling crowd of campers and parents is exactly what Sam expects and he heaves a deep sigh before pasting on an excited grin and making his way forward.

Sam checks in with his counselor pair, keeping his smile steady even when they ask where his parents are. If they really care, he’ll make something up. They don’t and Sam’s barely relieved, already listing the known deaths and finer details of the case in his mind. One every ten years, always in August, always here, but not always in the same exact location. Not always by the same means.

It’s a high pressure case, because the deaths only occur every ten years, so if Sam doesn’t figure it out they won’t have another shot for a decade. Sam knows he’s here only partly because of the case. Mary has a new lead on Yellow Eyes, and she refuses to take Sam on those cases. He stopped being pissed about it a long time ago; it’s the only time she ever treats him like a kid.

Sam follows his counselors and the rest of the guys in the group to their cabin. Raccoon Cabin, apparently, is the coolest cabin. At least, that’s according to the annoyingly cheerful guy with the dark hair leading them. The other counselor, Brad, rolls his eyes at the boys behind dark-haired guy’s back and the campers are practically wetting themselves with laughter. Sam can see the idolizing begin.

He shoves his duffel under his bed, checking that it’s out of sight. It has an extra compartment sewn into the bottom where he keeps his weapons and journal, but he can’t be too careful. He doesn’t bother changing, just waits on the steps while the other kids put their stuff away amid chatter and scuffles.

Most of the kids are only here for a week or two, to give their parents a break from their obnoxious whining about how boring summer is. Sam’s one of the few who are staying for the whole summer. He’s hoping at least it might mean they’ll watch him less carefully once they get used to him. For now he can at least make sure no one has any reason to pay attention to him, mostly by scowling at anyone who so much as looks at him. Works like a charm.

***

Dinner’s in the Mess Hall, also sometimes referred to as the Big Barn. From the enthusiasm of the counselors, Sam’s guessing the food won’t be this good every night. There are burgers and fries and not a single green thing in sight.

Sam watches the counselor’s table, wondering if any of them might have useful information about the history of the camp. He knows from experience that the most useful facts are often left out of the records, the stuff about who was fucking whose wife and whose suicide was really a murder. Sam figures there must some urban legends about this place - what better place for ghost stories than a summer camp?

There are twelve counselors, two for each cabin. Sam recognizes the two from his own cabin, Brad with the dirty blond hair and the other guy who smiles too much. Then there are the four girls at one end of the table, mostly talking amongst themselves and ignoring everything around them. One of them keeps glancing over to the other end of the table, like she’s checking if the dark-skinned guy in the blue shirt is watching her. Which, to be fair, he absolutely is, with no subtlety whatsoever. In fact, he’s being so blatant that the guy talking to him keeps rolling his eyes and finally elbows him hard.

Rolling-eyes guy is fair-skinned under a swath of freckles across his cheeks and straight nose. He has dark gold hair and a of self-assured smile that comes from a lifetime of being told what a winner he is. He’s exactly the kind of guy Sam hates on principle: never had to fight for anything in his life, never had to protect anything, never had to think further than the nearest cheerleader.

Next to him is another counselor, a girl with dark hair and blue eyes scanning the crowd of campers while her friend talks endlessly, gesturing animatedly. She catches Sam watching and raises her eyebrows, and Sam lets his gaze casually drift southward, aiming for the glazed-over stare of a horny teenager. He doesn’t look back at her face until he’s sure she’s moved on.

By the time dessert (root beer floats) is served, Sam has catalogued all the counselors with their various descriptive names and how much they probably know about the history of this camp. He spends the rest of the meal watching Freckles, as he’s dubbed the pretty boy counselor, licking ice cream off his thumb and teasing Shark Face (the blue-eyed girl) next to him. She gives back as good as she gets and Sam can’t take his eyes off the blush that creeps up under those freckles as the guy ducks his head. It’s a good act. Sam bets it works on all the pretty girls back home too.

***

After dinner is the Welcome Campfire out in the main clearing. The campers are all given a handful of marshmallows and instructed to find a stick. Sam lets his marshmallows burn to a  crisp, going through the motions and keeping his eyes on the flame as he listens to the various conversations around him. It’s mostly useless chatter, kids discussing the possibility of snakes finding their way into the cabins or ticks carrying lethal diseases.

“I wouldn’t be too worried ‘bout snakes, if I were you. You know this place is haunted, right?”

That’s one of the counselors, the lovesick one who was sitting by Freckles, Sam guesses. He doesn’t turn around, preferring to listen in. Most of the campers scoff and laugh it off, but a couple start asking questions, and the guy’s voice drops into a lower register as he starts to tell the story.

“It started a hundred years ago, with the mysterious death of a young woman. Since then, every few summers, there’s been another inexplicable murder on the grounds. No one knows how they die, only that their bodies are found with an expression of absolute terror on their face. People say you can hear their ghosts at night, in the forest and crawling out of the lake, trying to warn the next victim.”

The kids have gone mostly quiet. The guy’s a good storyteller, his voice quiet and spooky over the crackling of the fire. When Sam turns around, there are more than a few scared faces in the crowd - the much thinner crowd, Sam notices. At least half of the counselors are missing.

As another counselor starts up her own story, this one about a haunted cave “not far from here,” Sam notices Freckles elbowing the guy who told the ghost story.

“Why do you have to tell them that story every time? If there’s a single nightmare tonight, I’m blaming you.”

“Dude, we have a legitimate scary story about this camp, it’s like our duty to pass it on. Besides, it’s not like there’s an actual ghost, and these kids can take it.”

Freckles scowls prettily at him.

“Yeah, there’s no ghost but there have been murders and -”

“Oh man, you still believe that serial killer theory? Dude, it’s just a coincidence. Maybe this is just a really nice place to murder people. There’s no serial killer.” He’s laughing as he says it, but it’s not harsh and Freckles just shrugs it off.

“Whatever. You hear a kid wake up screaming tonight, you go check it out.”

Sam turns away before they can notice him. Serial killer. Really. Civilians are fucking blind.

The other campers are completely oblivious, but Sam notices that the counselors are leaving in pairs, presumably to have some of their own fun. Sam considers trying follow, figuring he might overhear something useful, but the remaining campers are being watched even more carefully than usual.

They’re sent to bed around 9 and Sam waits for the other campers, hopped up on sugar and the excitement of being away from their parents, to fall gently into sleep before digging his duffel out and pulling out his journal. Keeping a record of all information is essential to seeing the whole puzzle and solving a case without mistakes. Mistakes get people killed.

Sam doesn’t have much to write, but he dutifully goes over what he already knows and adds the few new pieces of information he’s gathered before returning the journal to its hiding place and lying back. He can hear the distinct lack of movement, not even breathing, from behind the curtain and knows the counselors haven’t returned yet. Sam figures they’d probably get in a lot of trouble if a kid woke up right now, but then again, it must be a boring summer here at Camp Black Creek. The counselors probably have to find their fun where they can.

***

Dean and Dave make sure their campers are asleep before heading down to the bonfire, so by the time they arrive, the festivities are well under way. There’s a bottle of tequila being handed around the group, a cooler full of beers at Stan’s feet, and Dean can see Brad rolling a joint.

Stan grins at him and hands him a beer as he sits down. Dean likes Stan, even if he isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He’s a good guy, always smiling and never looking to start trouble. Brad, on the other hand, has always rubbed Dean the wrong way. He’s got a mean streak a mile wide and never makes any effort with the more “difficult” kids. Right now, he’s handing a joint over to Rachel with a smile that’s a little friendlier than it needs to be.

Katie comes down the path and Stan stands with a groan - they each take a turn checking on all the cabins, the idea being that if there’s always one of them making the rounds, the kids are safe. They’re probably safe anyway, but nobody wants to take any chances.

Dean spends most of the evening trying to distract Dave from glaring at Brad, who spends the evening chatting with Rachel, leaning in close and occasionally laying a hand on her lower back. She looks flushed, pleased, if surprised, at the attention, and Dean can’t blame her - he doesn’t think Brad’s ever even talked to her before.

Fascinating though the social lives of his fellow counselors are, Dean excuses himself early. He manages to talk Dave into retiring early as well with a reminder that the first day is always the worst: confused campers, exhausted counselors, plenty of activities to keep everyone constantly occupied.

Dean falls into bed around one in the morning with an odd restless feeling crawling under his skin. He’s finally back at camp, surrounded by his friends and the familiar smell of dusty wood and green lakewater, but there’s something missing. Almost like... it’s all too familiar, and Dean’s on the edge of something about to mess it all up - and Dean sort of wants it messed up.

***

Dave shakes Dean out of his nightmare. The first year they’d roomed together, as campers back then, Dean had had to explain to Dave about his dreams. They happened about twice a week, sometimes more often, and Dean couldn’t seem to do anything about it. He doesn’t scream anymore, just mutters and tosses and turns, but Dave’s used to it all by now. A quick shake and a “Dude, get up,” is enough to pull Dean away from the fire in his mind.

At breakfast, Dean has to give a couple of kids “the Talk.” “The Talk” is always different: Dean’s unofficial role is the guy who can talk to the “troubled” kids, to the bullies, to anyone caught breaking the rules. He’d started doing it on his own, just wanted to get a kid to stop stealing everyone’s stuff from the lockers by the lake, but Ms. Hamilton, the camp Director - a woman with sharp black eyes and an impressively hooked nose - had picked up on it quickly.

When she’d called Dean into her office the first time, he was sure she’d somehow heard about the bottle of Captain Morgan he’d smuggled in, but instead he was greeted with a smile and an offer to be the unofficial camp “Mentor.” He remembers she was surprised he didn’t have any younger brothers and sisters, and Dean hadn’t bothered going into any details on that one.

Something about Dean’s natural, unassuming charm just makes it easy to get kids to listen to him, and this morning is no different. These kids were caught sneaking out early in the morning to catch a frog, the intention being to hide it in one of the girls’ beds. Dean explains how dangerous it is for kids to be out of counselor supervision, impressing upon them the importance of keeping their counselors in the know when they want to pull pranks.

***

The first day is exactly what Sam expected: counselors trying hard to hide their hangovers with an overabundance of enthusiasm, campers vying for the “best” activities, and Ms. Hamilton watching it all like a hawk. He spends the morning matching the buildings and beaches and dock to the map of the camp grounds he memorized earlier.  


Sam figures Ms. Hamilton’s office is the most likely place to find information about the murders, but the campers aren’t allowed in the administration building unless they’re in trouble. At lunch time, Sam sees Ms. Hamilton speaking with the Camp nurse, Mrs. Hutchins. According to the map he procured a few days ago from the nearest town hall, the nurse’s office is only a few doors down from Ms. Hamilton’s office, which gives Sam a few options. He can try to sneak into the building when he knows Ms. Hamilton’s busy, find a way to get called to her office (probably by breaking the rules and getting lectured on good behavior) or fake some kind of illness.

He’s not bad at that last one - he’s got the fever-chills and hacking cough down pat - but he does love a good break-in.

Sam makes his attempt to break away from his group right after lunch, during the arts and crafts session when he sees Ms. Hamilton walking to the shoreline. He mentions going to the bathroom as the campers are being led out of the Big Barn, then slips out the side door and walks quickly around the building, hugging the wall and keeping out of sight.

The window to Ms. Hamilton’s office only takes one hard shove before it swings open. Sam slips through effortlessly, dropping catlike to the hardwood floor and holding his breath when he hears footsteps in the hall. Whoever it is goes by without stopping and Sam makes his way quickly to the wall of filing cabinets. They’re labeled by decade, going back to when the camp was first established. There’s one labeled 1940 and earlier and Sam pulls the first drawer open. There’s not much, mostly newspaper clippings and ancient paperwork. He’s only halfway through the pile when he hears the building door creaking open.

The clipping he’s reading is from an article from 1940, nine years before the first recorded murder that Sam’s aware of. It’s about renovations being made to the pier out on the lake and mentions that they will ameliorate the safety of the shore. The article references “the tragic drownings two summers prior” which situates them in the right time frame to be a part of the pattern and Sam is scanning quickly ahead, sure he’s going to get the details of the deaths, when he hears Ms. Hamilton’s voice directly outside the door.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and tucks the folded article into the front of his jeans in case they check his pockets. He’s hauling himself up onto the window sill when he sees four counselors walking along the shore outside the building.

Faced with the choice between getting caught by one middle aged woman or four teenagers, Sam pastes on an innocent face and reaches for a convincing lie. Ms. Hamilton walks in the room with her head turned away, still yelling instructions down the hall, giving Sam time to step away from the window and toward the door.

By the time Ms. Hamilton is finished reprimanding Sam about wandering away from his cabin group without permission, he’s wearing a wounded puppy look like it’s going out of style and decides to add a trembling lower lip just in case. Sure enough, Ms. Hamilton’s stern expression softens and she sends him back outside with a warning and instructions to stick with his counselors from now on.

Sam waits until after dinner to read the article. Stan and Brad are busy bribing the other campers to clean the cabin and Sam has time to slip outside with a flashlight.

“Our community has been not only greatly saddened by the deaths of Anne-Louise and Lorraine Bucher...”

Sam scans ahead. Rule number 6: find out where they died and where they’re buried.

“The girls fell from the old pier on the West shore and drowned in seconds. Their father, Ralph Bucher, was present for the tragic incident and has chosen to fund the renovation project as a parting gift to the community. The shore belonged to the Bucher family for many generations before being sold...”

Sam tucks the article back into his pocket and quietly goes to bed. The other campers are still crowded around Stan and Brad like a small herd and Sam holds back a snort, settles for rolling his eyes to himself and lying back on his bunk.

He picked a bottom bunk when he arrived (better for sneaking out) and now he stares up at the stuffing leaking out of the mattress above him while he considers the information he’s just obtained. There were two deaths exactly ten years before the 1948 murder-suicide Sam had thought was the first. He’s missing the 1978 deaths - nothing on the record, but that doesn’t mean no one died - but aside from that one, he thinks he has them all, up to 1988 when two unidentified bodies washed up on the North shore.

He’s been planning to go check out the site of the 1948 killings, but now he’s thinking he might as well go straight to the pier and look for cold spots or ectoplasm. There’s always the off chance this isn’t a ghost, but Sam’s not betting on it - the perfectly timed murders, the fact that there are always two, the similarities between the victims - it all points straight to an angry spirit.

He’s still in that early part of a hunt, where it feels like he’s making headway and moving forward.

***

The following week is a nerve-wracking mix of boredom and sharp tension. Sam spaces out for most of the activities, only perking up when there’s a chance he could get away for a few minutes. Every opportunity is quickly crushed by Stan, Brad, or, on more than one occasion, Dean - the green eyed counselor Sam dubbed Freckles in his head. Sam has a feeling Ms. Hamilton told the guy to keep an extra eye on him because it feels like every time he turns around there are quick green eyes tracking him like a hawk. There’s something between hunger and heat, curiosity and amusement behind that gaze that Sam can’t place.

He hasn’t gotten a chance to pull the puppy dog eyes on the guy; as soon as Sam knows he’s being watched, Dean’s gaze moves on.

***

Dean watches the Campbell kid try to peel away from his cabin group again. He’s eyeing his counselors shiftily while he slows his stride until he’s at the back of the group, falling behind as they make their way to the lake. It’s the third time Dean thinks Ms. Hamilton has this kid pegged completely wrong.

She pulled a few counselors aside the second day of camp to let them know that one of the campers was having trouble staying with his own group. Watching him now, Dean can’t help but wonder how Ms. Hamilton could have possibly thought the kid was wandering off on accident - it’s not only clear to Dean that he’s doing it on purpose, but also that he’s pretty damn good at it.

Something about him - something about the way he slouches his tall, skinny body down like he’s trying to hide in plain sight - tugs at Dean’s attention until he finds himself spending at least as much time watching him as he does overseeing his own campers. It’s not just the way he holds himself, either. He seems almost disconnected from the rest of the camp, a wolf among dogs: always watching but never really interested.

***

When Sam finally manages to get to the pier, it’s after dark and there’s another big bonfire happening on the other side of camp. This time, he ensured that every counselor was thoroughly preoccupied before making his escape: Brad’s busy trying to sneak an arm around Rachel while Stan good naturedly helps campers drag more logs to the edge of the fire pit. Dean is deep in conversation with Sharkface and Sam determinedly ignores the gnawing desire to stay and watch, maybe wander closer, listen to Dean’s unexpectedly gravelly voice as he undoubtedly flirts with her.

Instead, Sam edged away from the light and threw one last glance around the fire at the faces bathed in yellow firelight. Not one was looking his way - campers and counselors alike completely entwined in their happy, horror-free existence, not sparing a second thought to the empty seat Sam left behind.

He turned away before he could start feeling sorry for himself - that’s not something he does, not ever - and walked quickly into the woods without looking back. There was enough light from the moon to guide him through the trees to the shore, where he stands now.

The lake is black and still, barely-there waves lapping at the rocks near the pier. Sam pulls out his EMF meter as he approaches the near end of the pier, the damp smell of lakewater and wet wood filling his nose. He starts a weaving pattern, back and forth along the shoreline toward the pier and up onto it, covering as much ground as possible.

There’s nothing, not even a blip. He hasn’t seen a drop of ectoplasm anywhere. Sam is staring hard at his EMF meter when a shout nearly startles him into dropping it.

“Hey!”

It’s the freckly counselor; Sam can tell without looking. He does look up though, once the note of panic in the guy’s voice registers.

Dean’s already partway down the shore, half-running, half-tripping his way to the pier. Sam tucks his EMF meter away and watches, increasingly puzzled, until the guy finally reaches him. He’s standing too close, hands hovering above Sam’s shoulders like he wants to grip them but knows he shouldn’t.

“You can’t just take off like that,” he says. Sam opens his mouth but there’s no sound, no easy lie presenting itself. His mind is bouncing off the edges of this situation, caught between wanting to ask what this guy’s problem is and indignation at the implication that Sam can’t handle being out in the woods alone.

The guy’s watching him a little too closely, his eyes scanning Sam’s face like there’s some kind of answer hidden just beneath the surface. Their eyes meet and it’s like Sam’s brain comes back online, only this time it’s too late to come up with a good excuse. It’s okay; he has other ways of getting out of this.

“Just wanted to get some air,” Sam breathes, taking a step forward. He can see Dean hesitate, can see the very moment he notices how close they are and the way Sam’s angling his body into his personal space. It’s a risk but Sam knows how to use any advantage he can get and he’s seen the way this guy looks at him. There’s a lot more there than concern.

“Campfire’s in the middle of a forest and you needed to get air?”

Sam hides his surprise at how quickly the guy recovered behind a broad smile.

“Too many people back there, you know?” Sam asks, looking up at Dean through his lashes. “It’s more private out here.”

The words don’t mean much but the way Sam brings his hand up to stroke along Dean’s chest leaves little doubt as to what he’s offering. Dean’s eyes widen fractionally and he freezes for a moment before wrapping a hand around Sam’s wrist and carefully pulling it away from himself.

“We should get back to the cabins, it’s almost lights out.” Dean says it in what Sam supposes is an attempt at a neutral monotone but comes off as more of a plea.

“Anything I can do to convince you not to tell Ms Hamilton I was out here?” Sam asks with what can only be described as a leer. It’s a last resort and he’s not sure why he’s still pushing this angle but at this point he doesn’t think he can quite afford to get himself into any more trouble.

Dean’s blinking at him like he isn’t sure whether to believe what he’s seeing.

“Aren’t you, like, twelve?”

Sam opens his mouth to disagree - probably with a few choice swear words thrown in for good measure - and only catches himself just in time. He’s registered at the camp with a false birth date - he can’t really pass for a twelve year old, but it isn’t too crazy, scrawny as he is, if you’re not standing too close. He shuts his mouth and shrugs like the age difference doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, not really, but he guesses twelve and nineteen are just a little too far for Dean’s taste. Can’t blame him for that one.

"C'mon, let's go," Dean says, and turns to walk away. Sam can't quite summon the strength to do anything about it so he follows the counselor back to camp. Dean leaves him at his cabin with a quiet, "Good night, Sam," and Sam's reply sticks in his throat.

He curls up in his bed after slipping the EMF meter back into his duffel and quickly undressing. He knows he should be disappointed that he hasn't found anything yet - the lake idea was a total bust, really - but something about the way Dean said his name... It makes Sam feel warm, makes him want to hear it again. He knows he'll be in trouble tomorrow, is already coming up with some excuses as to why he left the bonfire in the back of his mind, but for now he focuses on the way Dean watched him out on the lake.

He's sure Dean wanted him. Sam hasn't gotten this far without learning how to use other people's desires against them and this is just another tool in which he's well versed. Dean didn't take him up on it, though. He called Sam out on his age, which Sam supposes he should have remembered before making the offer. Of course, in his experience, guys don't really care how old you are if you're offering to suck them off. Which Sam didn't actually explicitly state, but now that he's thinking about it, he definitely would have.

But this guy just blew him off like it was nothing. Sam finds himself getting angrier and angrier the longer he thinks about it - this Dean guy isn't exactly hiding the fact that he wants Sam - staring at a guy's lips for several minutes straight across a crowded room sends a pretty clear message - but he won't do anything. It's infuriating, not only because Sam could use a good fuck, now that he can't stop thinking about it, but also because this would be an advantage Sam could really use.

A counselor would do almost anything to keep his superiors from finding out he fucked a camper (a camper who's supposedly twelve years old, no less). Counselors have open access to every inch of this camp - no one would question Dean walking into the administration building, even into Ms Hamilton’s office, to grab something. A form. A fucking paperclip.

Yeah, Sam could really use that. And considering the way Dean had refused to meet his eye on the walk back to camp, Sam thinks it's still worth another shot.

***

Dean can't sleep. He can't believe the kid is twelve, for one. The camp records may say it’s true - doesn’t mean Dean has to believe it.

He did the responsible thing and reported Sam to Brad and Stan after dropping Sam off at their cabin, explaining that he'd found the kid at the lake and that he said he'd wanted to get away from the crowd at the campfire. It's a shoddy excuse at best but given the fact that Brad and Stan didn't notice their camper was missing, Dean thinks Sam has about a 50/50 chance of getting away with it.

None of that explains why Sam was actually missing. He certainly didn't explain it to Dean and Dean doesn't think he'll tell anyone the truth, not even if Ms Hamilton's the one asking.

Maybe it's drugs.

He's twelve.

No, he's really not. So, drugs.

Maybe he was meeting one of the other counselors.

Dean's not prepared for the white hot anger that bursts through him at the thought. Granted, the thought of any counselor fucking with any camper disgusts him. Clearly Sam was open to it, though. And Dean can think of a few of the guys who wouldn't mind getting their dicks wet while they're all shacked up here in the woods.

Now Dean definitely can't sleep. He's going over every male counselor in camp in his mind, deciding who he needs to keep an eye on, when he finally gives up and decides to report Sam to Ms Hamilton himself. It's the only way of ensuring the kid is properly protected.

Dean doesn't like it - it means more people watching Sam, possibly more people for Sam to casually offer his services to, but it also means Sam probably won't be able to wander off like he did tonight.

***

Sam walks out of his second talk with Ms Hamilton wearing an apologetic smile and deliberately tearful eyes. The moment he steps out of her eyesight, he allows himself one quiet, contained, "God fucking dammit fuck," hissed between clenched teeth before making his way back to Brad.

"Probably shouldn't ditch us again, huh buddy?" Brad says, and Sam could swear the guy is gloating. It's fucking enraging but Sam can't do anything but shrug like he doesn't even care that someone clearly ratted him out and Sam's pretty sure who that someone is.

***

It takes Sam another week to get Dean alone again. He's been lingering around the counselors, listening in whenever he can in an effort to find a moment when Ms Hamilton leaves her office for more than an hour. He figures there's got to be either another location or an object tied to the spirit that's doing this, and the only way he's going to find it without going through the files in that cabinet more thoroughly is if someone lets something slip.

His eavesdropping has an unintended outcome, though. He overhears Dean and Dave in the entrance of the Big Barn planning to meet Rachel and Leah out in the woods after lights out on Thursday night. Sam’s standing just inside the building, pretending to look at fliers on the bulletin board while he strains to catch Dave’s excited words and Dean’s low-pitched gritty voice.

Sam watches them through that day, sees Dave convince one of the other counselors to watch their campers with a wink that hints at what he’s hoping to get out of this secret meetup. Sam figures now’s as good a time as any to go after Dean.

Sam can get obsessive about things sometimes. When he has a goal, he locks on it and doesn’t let up until he gets the job done. It’s never really been an issue with an actual person before, but it’s the same deal - he’ll get what he’s after, one way or another.

Sam wants to sneak out earlier but the guys in his cabin won't fall asleep. They're playing poker by the light of a few flashlights, Brad and Stan pretending not to notice from behind the partition. Sam watches the boys for a few minutes, concludes that most of them don't even know the basics of poker, and settles in to wait.

He finds himself imagining what Dean's doing out there with Leah and Rachel. He wonders if any of the other counselors are out there, if there are any guys for Dean. Maybe Dean likes girls, too. Maybe Dean's pressing Leah into the grass, one hand inching up her skirt and another cradling the back of her head as he shoves his tongue down her throat. Sam's noticed Dean's thick, freckled fingers - he bets they'd get a girl off almost as well as his tongue.

By the time the guys are asleep Sam's had to talk himself down from a hard on twice, and he’s only been half successful. He slips his shoes on once he's outside the cabin door and jumps lightly to the soft forest floor before taking off at a jog. He tells himself he's hurrying in order to minimize the likelihood of getting caught out of bed, but if he's honest with himself, he's hoping to get a chance to watch Dean with... whoever. Even if the thought makes him irrationally angry, he needs to see it.

The only ones left at the firepit are Dave and Rachel, and they're so tightly wrapped up in each other that Sam's in no danger of getting caught as he gets closer, scans the rest of the clearing for a sign of Dean. Nothing.

"Goddammit," Sam hisses, backing away from the clearing. He might as well check Dean's cabin before going back to bed, just in case the counselor's bed is empty. This night might not have been a waste after all, if he can just track down an errant camp counselor and get him to... Yeah, Sam's not sure who's making the decisions tonight, his brain or his dick, but as long as it's getting him closer to finding out what's in Ms. Hamilton's file, he's fine with it.

Dean's not in his bed, though Katie is. She must be watching Dave and Dean’s campers. Sam barely avoids being seen and practically runs down the path away from Dean's cabin. He slows down once he's out of sight and takes a moment to think. There are plenty of places a person could go to at night here at Camp Blackwater, but very few places a person would actually want to be.

Sam heads for the lakeshore. There are no trees so he'll be able to spot Dean immediately if he's anywhere in the vicinity. If not, Sam figures he can swing by Ms. Hamilton's office to check if the lock's easy to pick - it's right by the lake.

Dean's jogging along the edge of the water, head turning back and forth like he's looking for something. Sam stays in the relative shadow of the trees for a moment longer, trying to spot whatever Dean's running after, but nothing jumps out at him. When he finally steps forward with a barely audible rustle of cloth, Dean's head snaps in his direction and he practically sprints to Sam.

"What are you doing out here?" Sam asks casually before Dean can reach him. There's a hard intensity on Dean's face that puts Sam on edge, and he's trying not to acknowledge it but in a couple of seconds Dean will reach him. Sam's hand starts inching toward the knife in his pocket, but Dean stops a few feet away, breathing hard and shaking slightly.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asks, ignoring Sam's question.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he parrots back with a smile and a small step forward.

"I'm serious, I checked on your cabin earlier and you were just gone. You can't just do that,

Sam. We have these rules for a reason, this area's not safe for a kid all alone out at night."

Sam bristles at the word 'kid' but he pushes past it.

"Aw, were you worried about me? Don't worry, I'm safe now that you're here." Sam says it honey sweet, lays it on thick and expects Dean's chest to swell with idiotic pride at the flattery. Instead, he gets an annoyed frown.

"And stop doing that. Seriously, I don't know what you're trying to do but it's not working, so cut it out."

Sam grins and takes another step forward, bringing them nearly chest to chest. Dean doesn't back down.

"C'mon, Dean. I know what you want, you know what you want... All you have to do is reach out and take it." He murmurs the words against Dean's pulse, one hand traveling up Dean's well muscled arm and the other gently molding itself to Dean's hipbone.

Dean takes a shaky breath and Sam grins against his warm throat, sharp teeth grazing soft skin. He slides his hand up to Dean's shoulder and down his chest, down and down until it's resting just above Dean's belt. Dean's frozen against him and Sam's not sure what'll happen next, only that he needs to push Dean, needs to find out. He drops his hand lower to cup over the obvious bulge in Dean's pants, feels heat bleeding through fabric and sudden, jerky motions beneath his palm.

Then Dean's shoving at Sam's chest, hard enough to send him reeling back. He'd be on the ground without his training, and he falls into a defensive stance within the blink of an eye while Dean stares wide eyed at him.

***

Dean's breathing too fast like he just sprinted down the whole shore and he's so hard he swears he can feel the blood throbbing through his dick. This is so wrong. Dean's brain is already miles ahead, imagining getting kicked out of camp, picturing his dad's face when he hears why. All he can think is that he needs to get away from this kid, and somehow that's the last thing he wants.

Sam's standing a few yards away, loose fists curled at his sides and slanted hazel eyes focused on Dean. Dean starts to take a step back and Sam's lip curls.

"Why are you lying to yourself? Is it the age thing? I'm not-" Sam cuts himself off, eyes widening before they narrow. The sheer anger behind that look snaps something in Dean and he takes a step forward.

"What is your deal, man? There's plenty of kids your own age here. What, you got a thing for older guys?"

"Don't call me a kid," Sam says, voice low and dangerous. Dean laughs harshly, right in Sam's face.

"Dude, what are you, twelve? Thirteen? You are a kid." It's mean, both Dean's mocking tone and the words he's sending like jabs. The sick thing is that behind the urge to taunt and provoke, Dean's aching for Sam to tell him he's not really that young. It's so wrong it's twisting his guts right up but he can't seem to help it.

Sam looks enraged, though, and unlikely to answer as he takes another step forward and launches a fist at Dean's face. Dean knows enough to take a big step back so it barely clips him, but he's only been in a few fights and none of them were with angry, skinny campers. Dean's only worried about Sam hurting himself for the first few seconds - right up until he gets an elbow to the stomach and somehow Sam drops him to the ground. That's when Dean finally realizes he should probably fight back because this kid is way stronger than he appears.

Dean manages to shove Sam off him long enough to catch his breath, but the kid launches himself right back at Dean and knocks him to the dusty ground again. Dean rolls them over, pinning Sam far more easily than he should be able to, and gets one hand wrapped around Sam's wrist.

Dean can feel Sam's wiry body beneath him, all angles and lean muscle. He's taller than he looks, Dean realizes; he must slouch all the time. He's also pressing himself up against Dean and it's starting to feel so good Dean shifts unconsciously.

Sam huffs a breath up into Dean's face and grins.

"This how you want it? Wanna hold me down while we --"

"Shut up," Dean snarls and throws himself back. He scrambles away from Sam and gets to his feet just as voices carry across the shore to the boys.

"Dean! Did you find him?" It's Brad and behind him is Katie, both of them running towards Dean. The counselors barely have time to notice Sam, still lying on the ground, when Ms. Hamilton appears in the doorway to her cabin.

"What is going on out here?" she asks, an air of absolute outrage in her tone. Sam meets Dean's eye for a moment before looking away.

***

Sam quickly weighs his options as Ms. Hamilton makes her way over to the group. He could claim Dean asked him to meet him out here, or lured him out of bed... Except Sam's guessing Brad and Katie are out of bed because Dean told them Sam was missing, so that won't work. He can claim Dean found him and attacked him, which would explain the bruises and scratches on both of them. They've all known Dean for years though; he's their golden boy and Sam's just some scrawny kid no one knows who keeps getting into trouble.  


Sam finally settles on keeping his mouth shut until he can find a better way out of this situation. It's not his favorite plan - Sam’s a good liar and he always feels better when he's got a good solid story to hide behind - but it'll have to do for now.

Ms. Hamilton asks Brad and Katie to return to their respective cabins before turning to Sam and Dean. Her eyes travel slowly over the dirt smeared over Dean's back, the pink spot on his cheek that'll darken to a bruise by morning, the cut lip and the messy way his shirt is rucked up revealing a strip of tanned, muscular stomach. She glances over at Sam next, takes in his ruffled hair and torn shirt, the dirt on the knees of his jeans. She's quiet for a moment.

"I take it you boys have been fighting." It's not a question. "Dean, you know that fighting is not tolerated at Camp Blackwater. I'm afraid both of you will have to be suspended."

Sam doesn't say anything, but Dean’s eyes widen in shock and he opens his mouth to argue. Ms. Hamilton holds up a hand.

"No Dean, I'm not sending you home. You can still earn your summer’s pay," she adds with a small smile that disappears as she takes on a more serious tone. "Both of you will have to be removed from the main camp, however, for at least a week. Yes, I think a week should do it."

Sam glances at Dean to check if he's understood what she's saying. Apparently he has, because he's shaking his head, a look of stubborn disbelief on his face. When Sam turns back to Ms. Hamilton, she's smiling indulgently at Dean.

"I won't make you suffer the indignity of being supervised by one of your peers, Dean. You can be the supervising Counselor, and Mr. Campbell here will be the official detainee. However, I want both of you to try to get along while you're there, do you hear me? Learn to work together."

With a final nod, Ms. Hamilton turns to head back to camp.

"I expect you both to be packed and ready by breakfast," she calls over her shoulder.

The walk back to the cabins is awkward as all hell. Dean stands back to let Sam pass before him and walks a few yards behind him the whole way. He stops Sam a few yards away from his cabin and clears his throat.

"You're gonna wanna pack your bag. We're going to the isolation cabin tomorrow. Take all your stuff, 'cause you can't come back here until we're through serving our ‘sentence’." Dean won't meet his eye and Sam wants to force him to. He doesn't.

He just nods and turns away, drops into his bunk without changing and closes his eyes. He can still feel Dean's body above him, heavy but not stifling. Safe, like a fire blanket. And so warm.

***

Sam didn't actually have to pack - he never unpacked in the first place - so he just brings his duffel to breakfast. It feels like a last meal somehow - Brad keeps shooting him sympathetic looks while the other campers whisper loudly around him. Stan’s missing and Sam wonders about that to take his mind off the fact that he has somehow spectacularly broken rule number three of hunting - don’t get noticed.

He gets called away just as he's scraping the last of the scrambled eggs off his plate and he walks down the row of kids to meet Ms. Hamilton.

"Dean knows where you're going, and I asked Stan and Dave to bring some supplies over before breakfast." She glances over at the guys, sweaty and disgruntled, looking positively thrilled to have already been on a heavily loaded hike at the crack of dawn. "There's a phone at the cabin, but you're only to use it for emergencies. Aside from that, Dean, I think I trust you to remember your instructions. Take care, and I'll see you in a week."

Dean nods and murmurs his thanks before tossing his bag over his shoulder. Sam follows suit without a word.

The hike is only a half hour, but it's in a direction Sam hasn't been before - none of the camp hikes go east from the main camp. He keeps his mouth shut, focusing on memorizing the path so he can come back this way when he goes for Ms. Hamilton's office. He knows getting sent up here is probably a huge setback to the case, but if he's understood correctly, he's going to be locked up in a cabin with the most irritatingly tempting guy Sam thinks he's ever met. He wonders how long it'll take Dean to crack.

Both boys are sweating and huffing by the time they reach the cabin. It's a one-room deal with an outhouse and an outdoor shower that Sam intends to take full advantage of immediately. He throws his duffel on the bed closest to the door and strips out of his shirt while Dean stands in the doorway and pretends not to stare.

"Gonna take a shower. Wanna come with?" Sam asks with an impish grin. Dean shakes his head and opens his mouth, probably to tell Sam to stop hitting on him, but Sam just brushes slowly past him on his way out.

The shower's amazing in spite of a general lack of hot water. The water's not freezing, which is good enough for Sam, and though he’s hidden from view he has a feeling Dean can hear him, which makes it that much better when he wraps a hand around his cock and strokes himself off under the spray.

There’s not a whole lot left to be gained by getting this guy to fuck him; Sam knows this, and yet here he is letting soft moans and grunts escape him in the hope that Dean'll hear. He's jerking himself almost angrily and he's not sure why, only that as he gets closer and closer to orgasm, knees going weak and breath coming short, he lets himself groan Dean's name and it feels so damn good he comes with it still on his lips.

When the post orgasm glow fades, Sam's angry. Dean's a perfect shining example of normal small town America - probably has a pretty girlfriend at home, probably has a sweet gig as the star quarterback or something, probably headed to college and a perfect life, 2.5 children and a white picket fence. Probably.

Whereas Sam's headed towards a life of sleeping with a gun under his pillow, never staying in one town longer than a week, and possibly one day turning darkside and killing people. The 'Don't Get Attached' rule isn't just there for the hunters - sure, it helps you solve a case if you're not spending half the time holding hands and planning your future children's names - it's to stop civilians from getting hurt. Sam needs to remember that, and get over this weird urge to push Dean until he snaps and fucks Sam into the mattress.

Dean's not in the cabin when Sam gets back in and he can't help feeling a little relieved. Time to remember what he's here for and plan the next step.

***

Dean's not a coward.

Usually, Dean's not a coward. Right now, he's running away from what has to be the most terrifying situation he's ever been in - the charred nightmare in the back of his mind notwithstanding. This kid is driving Dean insane. He heard every breath, every hushed whimper, every wet slide of skin on skin from the shower and he took off. And now, he's running through the woods under darkening clouds on a path he's not sure he's ever seen before and probably won’t be able to remember on the way back. At least he's not too worried about the age thing anymore. When Sam pulled his shirt off, he finally stood up nice and straight and Dean knows now that Sam's barely shorter than him and there's no way he's younger than 14. Which, fine, is young, but it's not that young. Not old enough for Dean to actually do anything, but old enough that Dean doesn't feel quite so perverted.

Somehow, this hasn't made keeping his hands off the kid any easier. Dean just needs to focus, and that's what this run is for. It's not really running away, it's more like... taking a break. A breather.

The rain starts to fall, first a couple of drops and then all at once it's pouring heavily on the hot ground, the smell of summer downpour thick in the air. Dean heads back the way he came with a quiet prayer that Sam will be dressed by the time he gets back to the cabin.

***

Sam’s dressed and sitting on his bed, curled protectively around something in his lap that Dean can’t see. He shrugs it off and grabs his towel, heading for the shower with barely a nod in Sam’s direction.

Dean's never concentrated so hard on a speck of paint before, but it's the only thing that gets him through standing naked in the exact spot where not even an hour before, Sam was gasping and moaning.

He makes himself a sandwich while the rain continues and considers making one for Sam but settles for leaving all the supplies out for him. The kid hasn't moved from his spot on the bed, still staring down at what Dean has now realized is a pile of papers. Every once in a while, he jots something down in a thick leather journal.

The afternoon passes in fits and starts - Dean dozes comfortably on his bed, then wakes suddenly to the sensation of being watched, before spending a tense half hour trying to observe Sam without being noticed, only to fall back asleep while Sam doesn't seem to move at all.

When Dean wakes up for the last time, it's dark and Sam isn't on his bed. There's rain lashing the walls of the cabin, wind knocking the branches of the surrounding trees against the ceiling and the irregular crash of thunder punctuating it all. Dean sits up, rubbing his eyes while he stretches and finds Sam at the window, staring out into the rain.

"Can't leave," Sam says absently. Dean snorts.

"What, big plans tonight?" he asks, and Sam turns to raise an eyebrow at him, but stays silent.

Dean sighs and slides out of bed, trying to ignore the hostile silence and the way Sam is watching him, expressionless. He wanders over to the "kitchen" - a corner of the cabin with a sink and a stove. Their supplies are piled on the wooden table - pasta, cans of beans and corn, a jar of tomato sauce, a few sausages that Dean supposes they'd better eat soon. It's cold in the cabin and if he remembers correctly, the electricity should --

Another ear shattering crash and the lights flicker. Sam spins to face Dean, eyes wide. His hand's curled tight in his pocket and Dean has to wonder what he's got in there for a moment before grinning.

"What, scared of a little lightning?" Dean asks, but Sam doesn't answer. Dean sighs and heads for the tiny fireplace. It won't do much to warm the place, but if they stay near it it'll keep them from shivering and the light will be welcome once the power goes out. Which should be any second, given the way the lights keep flickering at every strike.

When there's a decent sized fire crackling - if not roaring - in the fireplace, Dean stands with a sigh.

"You want some dinner?" he asks Sam, who's still standing by the window, tense and quiet. He's staring at the lights that won't stop buzzing in and out like they're going to attack at any second. "Hey! Dude, c'mon, the power goes out up here if there's a storm, it's no big deal. You wanna eat?"

Sam finally turns his attention back to Dean and nods warily, starts to cross the room towards him. There’s a low buzz and the lights flicker again as blue white light lights up the room. Sam freezes.

The lights go out like an afterthought, the echo of the thunder long gone. It takes Dean's eyes a moment to adjust but when they do they're pulled straight to Sam, standing stock still in the room, his hazel eyes darting back and forth. Waiting.

"Dude, relax. It's really just lightning."

Sam snorts but doesn't answer.

Dean laughs uneasily. The dark isn't scaring him, but Sam sort of is. Dean gets to his feet and goes to stand in front of Sam.

"Hey. Seriously man, you need to chill. If you have some, like, storm phobia or something you just gotta tell me."

Sam laughs in Dean's face.

"Power outage phobia? Fear of the dark?" Dean tries helplessly.

"I'm not scared of the dark," Sam says with a sneer. "I just know what's out there."

Dean blinks.

"There's nothing out there. Rain. Maybe some deer or something."

"Right."

Dean stares at him, the word 'crazy' lighting up in his head. Except he's not. The guy's smart, definitely logical, he's just... an angry teenager. Dean hesitates.

"You think there's something out there?" The instant he says it, he pictures some twisted, insane man with a rusty knife. Thoughts of all the stories he's heard about murders and disappearances on camp grounds fill his mind and he shivers.

Sam snaps out of it with a shrug and an easy grin.

"Nah, you're right. Probably just the rain," he says as he steps around Dean to get to food. "Hey, we got any salt for this?"

Dean watches him for a moment before answering, but Sam seems perfectly fine. There's a box of table salt in a cupboard and he tosses it to him before looking through their supplies for ketchup. No luck.

The boys eat by the flickering firelight, Dean slowly enjoying the meal and Sam consuming his with near military efficiency. There's not a crumb left anywhere by the time Dean's halfway finished with his hot dog and he raises his eyebrows at Sam, who shrugs again.

"Lots of brothers," he explains, and Dean feels a pang of jealousy.

"Must be nice."

Sam snorts and it’s like another splinter under Dean's skin, irritation flaring quick. He doesn't say another word, just finishes his dinner and throws his napkin in the fire.

Predictably, Dean finds himself breaking the silence first, curiosity trumping annoyance.

"Why are you the only Campbell at Blackwater if you have a bunch of brothers? They older?"

Sam sends him a disdainful glance before answering.

"Yeah. They're in college now. Christian's doing his undergrad at Harvard, Ash is doing grad school at Stanford."

The words are unexpectedly bitter, like Sam can't stand having to speak them. Dean knows he shouldn't press the topic, should in fact probably just shut the fuck up, but somehow he can't.

“You see them a lot, if they’re so far? Where’re you from, anyway?”

Dean knows the instant the words are out that it’s the wrong thing to ask. Sam’s face, previously scrunched in an annoyed frown, twists into an angry scowl.

***

It shouldn’t bother Sam and he knows it. He’s on edge, though, has been all night. He studied his incomplete case file until he could see the names and faces of victims everywhere he looked, black and white images burned into his retinas. He was already tense when the lights started flickering, and now with every brief plunge into darkness the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straighter, his eyes wide open to catch any glimpse of unnatural light.

It was only after Dean had begun staring at him for minutes at a time that Sam realized he’d slipped into hunter mode, fist clenched around the handle of his knife and every muscle tensed. He’d forced himself to relax, to smile and act normal and pretend not to check the corners of the cabin for ectoplasm.

So he’s on edge when he throws out a quick lie to explain his weird eating habits and Dean latches on, starts questioning him about his fictitious siblings and their whereabouts.

He doesn’t snap until Dean asks where he’s from.

There’s no good reason for this question to bother him. He must have heard it hundreds of times in his life, usually has no problem lying - sometimes pretty inventively - when he answers it. But this time he can’t and there’s a hot pit of anger in his stomach that he can’t explain and his nails are digging into his palms so hard there might be blood and Sam just cannot lie.

Dean’s still watching him and Sam’s skin is prickling under the scrutiny. He’s not about to answer, so he deflects, throws out the first jab he can think of.

“This isn’t a first date, sweetheart. No need to wine and dine me.”

***

Anger flares hot in Dean’s belly at the words, and he moves up into Sam’s space, their faces inches apart and chests nearly touching. He likes the way Sam has to tilt his face up to meet his eye.

“Why are you so convinced everyone wants to get in your pants? You’re not exactly my type.” Dean means it as a taunt but it sticks in his throat, more truth in the words than intended.

“Oh, I can believe that,” Sam says bitterly. “Bet you got a pretty girlfriend waiting at home. Lemme guess, captain of the cheerleaders? Straight A student, pretty but smart? You planning on marrying her, getting a nice pretty house with a white picket fence and everything?”

The words are a little too close to the truth - Alice was the co-captain, but everything else is on the money. Something about hearing his life plans in Sam’s angry voice makes them sound small and boring, sparking up doubts the Dean’s been trying to forget he has. He shakes them off with a harsh laugh.

“Is that what this is about? I got a life and you don’t, so you’re trying to what - fuck your way into mine?”

It’s mean and Dean knows it, but there’s something satisfying about the flash of anger in Sam’s eyes before he shoves Dean in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back for a second before he’s right back in Sam’s face.

“Fuck you,” Sam spits and Dean laughs again.

“Didn’t you hear me? That’s the thing: I. Don’t. Want. To.”

He’s pushing and he’s not sure why but suddenly he’s got other things to think about as Sam’s demeanor changes entirely. He drops the scowl, tilts his head flirtatiously and runs a hand up Dean’s bicep to his shoulder as he steps even closer.

“Oh really? You don’t want me on my knees for you?” Sam asks as he ducks his head in to run his lips against Dean’s skin. “I’ve seen you looking. You’re telling me you don’t want me to open up for you, take anything you wanna give me, right now?”

Sam’s voice is stretched taut, his body tense under the teasing act. And it is an act, Dean knows it is, but that doesn’t stop what feels like half his blood from rushing south.

Sam’s so close Dean can feel his chest moving with each breath, too fast and hard to be entirely fake. Dean should be backing up and denying everything, but he's not moving an inch and he can feel it the second Sam takes that for permission.

The moment goes from taunting to something else in an instant when Sam palms Dean's cock through his jeans. It's a practiced move and that fact makes something low and bitter burn in Dean's chest even as he gasps at the rough squeeze Sam gives him. It's the last straw that breaks Dean's resolve and he finally moves, wrapping one arm around Sam's body to pull him closer and threading the fingers of his other hand through Sam's dark floppy hair to tug his head back.

The groan that slips from Sam's lips sends a shiver down Dean's spine that has him grinding forward into Sam, dropping his eyes to meet Sam's for a moment. Pupils blown wide, leaving a strip of molten gold and hazel patched with blue visible through slitted lids before Sam's eyes shut entirely and he buries his face in Dean's neck, mouth latching onto heated skin. Sam's hand wiggles out from its trapped position against Dean's cock, drawing a shaky gasp from Dean as it moves against him before sliding up under the back of his shirt and gripping him hard. Dean grinds down against Sam and groans in frustration at the lack of friction.

"Floor," Sam mumbles against his neck, and the word takes a while to penetrate the fog of arousal in Dean's brain, but when it does he pushes Sam down, following to lie between Sam's spread thighs. It feels right, so good Dean could happily die here, Sam's strong, lean thighs tight around Dean's hips and the perfect thrust and grind of their cocks together through denim. Sam throws his head back on a moan when Dean slips a hand up his shirt to rub a thumb over one nipple - flat, skinny chest a strangely welcome surprise - and Dean knows they won't have time to get their dicks out, won't have time for anything because he's going to come.

When he does, it's with Sam's hips rising to meet his and Sam's hurt little noises filling him up, pulling hot pleasure down his body to the base of his spine. He faintly hears Sam cry out as hot wetness fills his underwear, is aware enough to feel Sam jerk and shake under him, one hand scrabbling on the floor and the other digging into Dean's shoulder.

In the quiet that follows, Dean pants and tries not to drop all of his weight onto Sam. It's not until Sam starts to shift that Dean finally pulls himself up to find a roll of paper towels, taking a couple before tossing the roll to Sam. He cleans himself up and tosses the mess into the fire, suddenly exhausted and surprisingly calm. He vaguely thinks that he should absolutely be freaking out right now, or at least feeling some serious regret, but he just... isn't. Some part of him thinks this was inevitable, that he knew this would happen from the moment he first set eyes on this kid.

Dean sits by the fire and doesn't turn to watch Sam clean himself up and go to bed.

***

Sam stares up at the ceiling, watches the firelight licking the wood until Dean covers it with the iron screen and everything goes dark. The rain has calmed to a steady pour and the lightning is moving on, the cabin quiet enough that Sam can hear Dean shedding his clothes and crawling into his own bed. Sam listens carefully to the deep, regular breathing not three feet away and lets his own slow to match it. Rolling onto his side to face the other bed, he finds himself staring at Dean's profile.

The anger in his belly is gone, replaced by warm satisfaction and a spark of doubt about what happens next. As Sam’s eyes drift shut and falls into sleep, one last sound breaks through to make him smile into his pillow.

“‘Night Sam.”

***

Dean wakes up to the sound of a heavy thump. It takes him a moment to remember that he's in the Isolation Cabin and the noise is a branch being whipped against the wall of the cabin by the wind. The storm is back in full force, rain lashing the windows and wind howling through the trees. The room is so dark Dean has to check his watch to confirm that it is, in fact, morning. He rolls over and throws a glance at the other bed only to find it empty. The bottom of his stomach drops out at the sight and he sits straight up.

Sam's in the kitchen drinking coffee - and since when do they give campers caffeine - flipping through that leather notebook he always has. He doesn't look up as Dean slides out of bed and tugs on some jeans to walk over to the kitchenette. Dean rifles through their supplies until he finds some bread and a pot of peanut butter. He pours himself some coffee and sits at the table opposite Sam, noting the way the kid tilts his journal so it's impossible for Dean to see what's inside.

After a few minutes of silence, the tension in the air growing thicker with each passing second, Dean thinks screw it and opens his mouth.

"What is that?" he asks, nodding to the journal. Sam glances up for a second before looking back down at the leather bound book in his hands, closing it with a small sigh.

"It's just a... It was my grandfather's. I write in it sometimes, to record... stuff." Sam looks infinitely uncomfortable with the subject.

"What kind of stuff?" Dean asks. He's pushing again. He knows this is just going to end in Sam shutting down and himself feeling like an idiot, but he really can't seem to help it.

"Just... stuff I do. Stuff that happens." Sam gazes out at the rain for a moment then turns back to

Dean. "You've been coming to this camp a long time, right?"

A personal question. This is some kind of victory, Dean's sure of it.

"Yeah, twelve years. Why?"

Sam's eyes light up at the number but he just shrugs.

"Just wondering."

Dean opens his mouth to speak when Sam interrupts.

"Is there anything to do here? I mean, up here at this cabin. Are we just suppose to sit around inside all week?"

Dean shrugs.

"Usually it's nice out. It's funny, I haven't seen a storm this bad since... I think it was my third year here. I was a camper back then and they had us all sit in the Big Barn all day and listen to stories. It was kind of fun, actually." Dean remembers everyone sitting in big circles on the floor, remembers playing telephone and duck duck goose. That was back when he was one of the littler kids at camp... He suddenly remembers that was the year they found those two hikers out by the lake. His discomfort must show on his face because Sam speaks up.

"What? What happened with that storm?" Sam sounds... excited.

"Nothing. Couple of hikers got lost in the storm, bodies showed up when it was over. One of the counselors found them, actually. Over by the lake."

Sam nods, like this somehow makes sense to him. Dean pushes it out of his mind.

"Anyway, storm probably won't last more than a couple of days, then we can go for a hike or something. I know a few around here..."

Dean's voice trails off. Sam's not paying attention anyway.

***

Sam considers what he’s learned while Dean goes to restart the fire. The deaths of the two hikers were recorded as accidents but Sam had figured they’d been the last victims. There was no information about them in the police file, just another Jane Doe and John Doe. There are other things he needs to ask Dean, about the bodies and the victims and the timing, but he usually relies on the fact that people trust kids to get information and that won’t work on Dean.  


Sam tries not to be obvious while he watches Dean grow more and more restless. He tries sitting on the ratty couch and watching the fire, staring out at the ever more violent rain, even does some pushups - which Sam is willing to admit, if only to himself, to finding somewhat captivating - before settling on his back on his bed, tossing an old baseball he found in a corner up into the air and catching it inches from his face.

“Wanna play something?” Dean asks, apparently finally giving up on the entertainment value of a baseball and holding up a pack of playing cards. Sam shrugs like this isn’t the perfect opportunity to subtly glean some info. He tucks the papers back into his journal and places it out of the way on the window sill to clear the table while Dean expertly shuffles the deck.

***

The window slams open on a particularly strong gust of wind and the entire contents of the window sill are knocked into the air. Dean’s baseball goes rolling under a bed, an unlit candle falls to the floor with a thud, and the wind sends Sam’s journal flying, all the papers tucked into it fluttering out.

Sam swears and starts grabbing papers from the air, stuffing them into the journal without checking what they are, cursing himself for leaving case materials so exposed. When the journal is stuffed fat with papers again and he can’t see any more on the floor, he turns back to Dean, ready to explain away his odd attachment to his journal and laugh it off.

Dean, however, is holding a single sheet of paper in front of him, the small creases of a frown

appearing between his eyebrows.

“I’ve seen this before...”

Sam holds his breath and prays for Dean to shrug it off.

“Is this what you were stealing from Ms Hamilton’s office?” Dean asks curiously. There’s no

reproach in his voice and the truth slips out of Sam before he can help it.

“No, that’s my copy.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly before he hands the sheet of paper back to Sam.

“Why do you have a crime scene photo in your journal?” Dean sits down at the table, not taking his eyes off Sam. “Why do you have a crime scene photo from this lake in your journal?”

Sam pauses. This is the part where he’d come up with a great lie - he already has several floating around in the back of his mind for this exact situation - but there’s something missing. Dean isn’t pushing him to lie. Dean isn’t suspicious or hostile at all - in fact, he seems almost... unsurprised, as if he’s been expecting this from the start. The thought doesn’t do much for Sam’s confidence in his acting ability but he takes a breath and pushes past the years of training to do the one thing he’s never supposed to.

“I’m investigating some unsolved murders around here.” There. He said it. It’s out and he can’t take it back. Dean’s reaction isn't anywhere near what he expected.

"I knew you were older!" Dean crows, relief written into every relaxed line of his face.

Sam stares at him.

"What?" Dean shrugs. "It's a big deal. So you're investigating the Blackwater serial killer?"

Sam shrugs noncommittally.

"Just looking into the deaths, looking for patterns."

Dean watches him silently for a moment, considering. Like he's deciding whether to call bullshit on a teenager investigating murder. He doesn't question it though, just nods before raising an eyebrow.

"You said murder. Most of those deaths are recorded as accidents though, right? I mean, there were those two hikers, dead in a storm. Then before that there were murders, the two brothers with the gun. Before that there wasn't anything, but people like to say that's because we never found the bodies. Before that there were those two old ladies, and before that - "

"Wait, what two old ladies? I thought there were no deaths recorded in 1968 or 1958?" Sam asks excitedly. He knew it was a good idea to ask Dean.

"Oh yeah, not a lot of people know about them, 'cause they were old. There used to be a retirement home out where the boathouse is now. Everyone says those two killed each other or something but they probably just died in their sleep - they were something like ninety years old." Dean shrugs like this isn't information Sam would have killed for.

"And before that, the brother and the sister - the police report has that as an accident with possible foul play, which is basically code for 'murder we couldn't solve'," Sam continues, and Dean nods.

"Yeah, but that's so far back no one really knows anymore. I mean, we all tell stories about 'the curse of Blackwater', or 'the sibling curse', but - "

"Sibling curse?" Sam asks excitedly. "I noticed the pattern, but they weren't all siblings. I thought maybe it was about people who spent a lot of time together, or people with history, or -"

"Nah, they were all siblings," Dean says with a little smile. He's enjoying having the upper hand a little too much, Sam thinks. "The old ladies had different last names 'cause they got married at some point, but they were sisters. Then there were the brothers, and no one knows for sure for the hikers but they sure looked alike - same hair, same nose, same height - "

"What about the 1948 murder? That was a nanny and the father of the kids, right?" Sam asks

"Brother and sister. She was a widow apparently, that's why they took her in as a nanny."

"You know a lot about this," Sam comments.

"Been hearing these stories since I was seven," Dean says. "Dave and I used to tell them after lights

out, too. Helped with my nightmares."

Sam laughs.

"Murder stories helped with your nightmares?" That's a new one.

Dean shrugs a little awkwardly and Sam decides to change the subject.

"So the first deaths were in 1938 - " he starts, but Dean's already shaking his head. "Yeah man, they were, I checked in Ms. Hamilton's office. Apparently they were barely recorded, but two little girls drowned in the lake."

"No, those were the second and third deaths. The first was in 1928, this lady people around here call Rose. I don't know if that was her real name. They say her brother killed her because she inherited all this land."

Sam stares at Dean for what feels like a full minute before speaking.

"That's it. It's gotta be her. Murdered by her own brother, that's definitely unfinished business, especially if he got away with it."

Dean quirks an eyebrow.

"Unfinished business? You talkin' about ghosts now?"

The hint of laughter in Dean's voice irks Sam but he just shrugs.

"Not ruling anything out, that's all. So, you know where this Rose lady was buried?" He aims for casual but apparently his acting is truly shot to hell because Dean doesn't answer for a second, just burns holes into Sam's retinas with his stare. When he finally does answer, he's speaking slow and calm, like he's talking to a child. Or an insane person, supplies Sam's brain.

"No, I don't know where she's buried. Why would you need to know that?"

It's the tone and it's the way Dean's looking at Sam, so careful, like Sam's fucking fragile or something. It snaps his self control straight through and the excitement at finding a lead combined with the tension between him and Dean since last night has him biting out a retort before he can think it through.

"I need to know where she's fucking buried so I can salt and burn her fucking bones and stop another two deaths," Sam says, and though the storm is still raging outside, the air inside the cabin feels too calm, too still. It's oppressive, pushing in at Sam's skin until he feels like exploding.

There's some small voice in the back of his head whispering that there's no reason to get this angry, that Dean hasn't even done anything wrong, but he ignores it and glares at Dean, chest heaving like he just ran a mile.

"You really think it's a ghost?" is all Dean asks, calm as can be. He's dropped the talking-to-a-crazy-person tone and Sam's grateful for that. Sam's anger deflates all at once, his shoulders dropping and the hot energy running through him slipping away, leaving him feeling sapped and tired.

"I know it is," he says quietly and Dean just nods.

Sam's quiet for a long time, letting Dean digest the information and decide whether Sam's crazy. He goes to lie on his bed and stare up at the wooden ceiling, thinking about what he needs to do next. It's going to be hard to do anything with the rain pelting the windows like this but Sam needs to get this done - there are only a few more days left before another two people die and this time it'll be Sam's fault.

"Is... salting and burning the corpse the only way to kill a ghost?" Dean asks, stumbling over the words a little.

"Yup," Sam answers, wondering if this is a test of his sanity.

"Then I'm thinking we should probably break into Ms. Hamilton's office to find out where Rose was buried. She keeps all kinds of records about the history of this place in there, I'd bet good money there's some kind of obituary or article about the death."

Sam sits up and stares at Dean. Dean heaves a put upon sort of sigh.

"Look, I'm not saying I believe in ghosts, but... I don't think you're lying, and there've been two deaths every ten years for a really long time, which is weird enough, and you sound like you know what you're doing, and it's not like it'll do any harm if there isn't a ghost, and - "

Sam's grinning by the time Dean breaks off.

"What?" Dean asks, frowning and blushing a little.

"Nothing." Sam schools his features into a more serious expression. "We can't do anything while it's raining like this, though. Can't see two yards in front of me and twenty bucks says the creek’s flooded anyway."

Dean nods.

"What ever could we do to pass the time until it clears up?" Sam asks in an overly innocent voice, raising an eyebrow at Dean, who looks away quickly.

"How old are you really?" Dean asks in a suddenly tight voice.

"Does it matter?" Sam asks. "I've seen and done things you can't even imagine. I'm not a kid."

Dean looks at him for a long moment then nods abruptly, pushing up out of his chair and making his way to Sam’s bed.

***

He knows he’s not pushing on the age issue for selfish reasons. He knows this, and yet somehow he has himself convinced that it’s okay because Sam is clearly not like any other... whatever-year-old.

Any thoughts about age are shoved out of his head the instant he finds himself standing at the edge of Sam’s bed, looking down at Sam’s slim body sprawled over the blue comforter. He’s wearing the only jeans he seems to own, a little too big at the waist - just enough to slip down over his hipbones and reveal a strip of flat stomach. His ratty t-shirt rides up as he shifts under Dean’s gaze.

“What do you want to do?” Dean asks, feeling young for a second. Sam probably knows more about this than him, and that’s an unwelcome thought.

“Whatever you want,” Sam replies and it’s not a casual cop-out. He says it like it’s true, like it’s important.

Dean reaches down and tugs Sam’s shirt up, over his ribs, over his head, Sam’s arms coming obediently up to help. There’s adrenaline pounding through Dean’s veins, a moment of panic when he realizes what he’s doing followed by an inexplicable calm at the sight of Sam lying back, knees casually spread, head tilted back and dark slitted eyes fixed on Dean.

He's not sure he'd call that trust but... There's something - a feeling that Dean could do anything right now, that Sam would let him do anything he wants, and that's... A rush like Dean's never felt before.

"Take the rest off," Dean says, his voice only cracking a little. Sam's cheeks flush red but he complies, kicking off socks and pants, barely hesitating before pushing his boxers down and off too. He's already hard and Dean has a passing thought that this - seeing another guy's dick for the first time outside of locker rooms and skinny dipping - should be a bigger deal than it is.

Dean feels weird for a second, standing at the side of the bed looking down at Sam - this is nothing like making out in the backseat of the Impala with his girl after a game - but then he's watching as Sam's hands clench in the blue fabric of the sheets, his cock hard and darkening, leaking against his stomach and Dean just knows Sam's trying not to touch himself.

Dean's calm breaks and he's climbing onto the bed, kneeling between Sam's legs to run a hand down his chest and watch the shiver that follows. Sam's head tips back and Dean watches his long throat as he swallows convulsively, switches from fingertips to fingernails to graze up along Sam's ribs and over a nipple. Sam whimpers and his knees shift, spreading further, cock jerking. The sight makes Dean ache to push him further, see what other noises he'll make.

Dean's has exactly zero experience with men - excluding the previous night - and yet somehow it doesn't occur to him that he doesn't know what he's doing as he leans down to lick a stripe from the base of Sam's cock to the tip. It's skin-salty with the slightest edge of bitterness from the precome slipping from the tip and Sam makes a muffled noise from behind clenched teeth.

Sam's hips jerk up when Dean does it again, so he presses a forearm across his narrow hips and easily holds him down. Sam seems to take it as permission, because he strains against Dean's arm with every lick. Dean finally decides Sam's wet enough and rests the head of Sam's cock between his lips, lets it slide in and out a few times before pushing deeper, over his tongue and back. Sam's past whimpering now, full-out whining and it does something hot to Dean's belly to see him losing control like that. His own dick is hard and too sensitive, rubbing along the inside of his underwear, but he can’t seem to take a hand off Sam to see to it.

Dean can't take him very deep but he slides up and down, wrapping his free hand around the rest and jerking him in time with his mouth. It's a little clumsy but Sam’s cock is slick with spit and when Sam loses it he's practically writhing, hair curling sweat-damp and hands white-knuckled in the bedspread. Dean pulls back to stroke him through his orgasm, come landing on Sam's chest and belly.

Dean tears open his own jeans and heaves a shaky sigh of relief when he gets his cock in hand. This isn’t going to take long, his hand already a blur on his cock, Sam’s eyes glued to the head of his cock popping in and out of the ring of his fingers.

“Can I..?” Dean manages to grind out, gesturing to Sam’s stomach. Sam’s eyes widen and he nods as the blush deepens on his cheeks.

It only takes another half dozen strokes and Dean’s leaning forward and coming all over Sam’s stomach and chest, his own come mixing with Sam’s. He’s breathing hard as the last pulses leave him and he immediately drops his hand to drag his fingertips through the mess, rubbing it into Sam’s skin, bringing one finger up to Sam’s lips to paint them with come. Sam’s tongue darts out to taste and the glimpse of deep pink has Dean’s cock twitching again.

  
***  


Sam’s warm, warmer than he thinks is really normal, but he can’t bring himself to care. Dean’s running a washcloth over his skin, cleaning him up and the wet cloth feels so rough against his skin, like it’s rubbing over raw nerve endings. He squirms a little until Dean finishes up and lies down beside him on the bed with a contented sigh.

Dean gently pushes and pulls at Sam until he's on his side facing away from Dean. He runs his fingers through Sam's hair and nuzzles at the back of his neck, wraps an arm around Sam's waist to pull him in close and keeps him there. There's a quiet voice in the back of Sam's mind whispering that this counts as cuddling and Sam, as a rule, does not cuddle, but his limbs are like molten fire and he can't even contemplate moving.

***

When he wakes up, the light in the cabin is tinted orange-red, filtering in through the dusty windows and casting a warm glow over the room. It's sunset, Sam sees when he lifts his head, and the rain has stopped. Dean's still plastered to Sam's back, their skin sticking damply together.

A brief moment of claustrophobia goes through Sam when he tries to move and finds himself caged in by Dean's arm, but he manages to shift Dean away and slip out of bed. His clothes are piled at the foot of the bed and he grabs them and a towel and heads out to the shower.

When he comes back, Dean's barely moved but he's awake. He smiles at Sam, a big, open grin that pulls at Sam, makes him want to grin right back. He does - feels stupid, feels like a little kid on Christmas with how good this is, feels the familiar urge to tuck any sign of emotion away and cover it up so it can't be used against him - but he can't hold it back anyway.

"Shower's free if you want," Sam says. Dean laughs.

"Is that a nicer way of saying I stink?"

Sam just raises an eyebrow and Dean flips him off as he heads out the door.

***

When Dean comes back, Sam's pulling his boots on, an open backpack beside him. Dean goes straight to his duffel and starts pulling on clothes, his still damp skin sticking lightly to the fabric.  


"Going somewhere?" he asks casually.

"It's time to break into Ms. Hamilton's office," Sam replies, rifling through his duffel. "This year's deaths could happen any day now, and the rain's cleared up. Can't waste time."

Dean nods and starts looking for his shoes. When he sits down to tug them on, Sam glances up at him and frowns.

"What are you doing?" he asks slowly, though Dean's thinks it's pretty obvious.

"I"m coming with you." Dean holds up a hand as Sam opens his mouth to argue. "C'mon man, don't tell me you couldn't use a lookout. Plus, they trust me - if we get caught, I can make something up about needing supplies in the middle of the night."

Sam considers this for a second then nods once and turns back to his duffel. Dean waits by the door as Sam tucks a few things into his backpack before pulling out a gun.

"Whoa," Dean says without thinking. "You think you need that? For Ms. Hamilton's office?"

Sam shrugs.

"Can't be too careful," he says, like he's talking about bringing an umbrella on a cloudy day and not a weapon to a children's camp. He leaves the gun in his duffel though, and Dean shoots him a grateful look before they head out on the wet path, each holding a flashlight.

They're quiet for a few minutes until Dean voices the thought he's been turning over and over in his head.

"So how'd you get into this?"

Dean's walking in front of Sam so he can't watch Sam's face as he answers.

"What, hunting?" Sam gives a short, hard laugh. "Runs in the family. We're all hunters, pretty much."

Dean thinks about that. His dad's a mechanic, and apparently his grandfather was too, and sure, Dean's thinking about going into it himself but it's not like he'd be risking his life and facing... whatever these guys face.

"Could you do something else, if you wanted?"

"No." Sam doesn't pause before answering. Dean wants to know what Sam would do if he could be anything but doesn't ask. There are few minutes of silence before Dean speaks again.

"You know that gun in your bag?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how to use it?" Dean asks.

"Nah, I just carry it around to look pretty," Sam retorts, voice heavy with sarcasm. Dean rolls his eyes even though Sam can't see.

"Shut up." Dean waits a beat. "You think you could teach me? I mean, I've shot a couple guns before, but I don't really..."

Sam's quiet for a moment.

"I don't know if we're far enough from camp that people wouldn't hear. Maybe."

Silence again.

"You said you hunt ghosts and 'other stuff'. What's the other stuff?" Dean asks, trying not to sound too eager.

"Demons. Sometimes monsters - my cousin bagged a werewolf a couple years back, that was pretty sweet. Vampires are pretty common, I've ganked a few. Sometimes we get weird shit - you ever heard of a rugaru?"

Dean shakes his head before remembering Sam probably can't see him in the dark.

"No, what is it?"

"'S kinda like a wendigo, but more human. Anyway, they're a bitch to kill but Mom's killed three."

"Your mom hunts too?" Dean asks, surprised. It's not that he can't imagine a woman hunting - he watches Buffy - but for some reason he pictures 'moms' being gentle, sweet, kind, not stabbing monsters through the heart with wooden stakes or some shit.

Sam laughs.

“Oh, yeah. She’s probably the best hunter out there right now. Top five, at least.”

“Wait, how many hunters are there?” Dean asks, ducking his head to avoid a low hanging branch. He hears a rustle as Sam does the same, and another, as if Sam is shrugging.

“Don’t really know. No one does. We spend most of our time trying not to be noticed, so it’s tough to say. There’s always a good dozen or so at the Roadhouse, and Christian says he met at least ten in one night when he was in L.A., but I don’t know if I believe him - likes to make shit up sometimes to get laid.”

The name rings a bell and Dean remembers their earlier conversation.

“Christian - that’s your brother, right? The one at Harvard?”

Sam takes long enough to answer that Dean’s about to repeat himself when the reply finally comes, quiet and awkward.

“He’s actually my cousin. I lied about the brother thing - I don’t really have any siblings. Well, I did, but he’s gone now.”

Dean swallows, something hard squeezing behind his sternum at the loss he recognizes in Sam’s voice.

“Sorry, man. I - I had a brother too, when I was little. He passed when I was four.”

They walk in silence for another few minutes

“What’s a wendigo?” Dean asks, half to break the silence and half because he’s itching to know. He loves horror films, novels, all of it, and he already has a list of questions for Sam forming in the back of his mind, starting with wendigos and ending with bigfoot.

“It’s what happens to someone who turns cannibal, according to Native American myths. They get fast and strong, live out in the woods and feed on hikers, campers, anyone who wanders out too far. Oh, and they like to keep their victims alive while they eat them. Real ugly, too.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle and he throws a quick glance around into trees them, but it’s all dark. Sam chuckles quietly behind him.

“We’re too far South for a wendigo out here, don’t worry. Nah, what you gotta worry about down here are vetala.”

He pauses, and Dean can tell he’s waiting for him to ask.

“What’s a vetala?”

There’s a smile in Sam’s voice when he answers.

“They look like people - they’re usually really beautiful, I guess to lure victims or something - anyway, they have these sharp teeth and they’re venomous. They bite you and you can’t run, can’t really move much, and then they drink your blood for a few days till you die.”

“You ever seen one?” Dean asks eagerly.

“Yeah, my mom killed one once when I was little. Silver knife to the heart.”

“Cool,” Dean says enthusiastically and Sam snorts.

“Yeah, I guess it was. I was like, five. I only saw it ‘cause I got hungry and I couldn’t get snacks out of the trunk by myself so I went in after her.”

That image - a tiny, chubby-fingered Sam tottering out of a car at night to find his mom because he wanted food - cools Dean’s burgeoning envy right down. Sure, hunting vampires and demons sounds pretty fucking awesome - the idea of being a hero, saving lives every night, sparks a weird kind of intense jealousy in Dean - but growing up in a warm safe home with no monsters under the bed was nice too.

“That’s young,” is all he can think of to say, and Sam makes a noise of agreement.

Dean’s saved from having to come up with anything else to say by the sight of the darkened administration building through a gap in the trees and he stops in his tracks. They click off their flashlights and put them away before crossing the open area in front of the building.

***

With Dean giving him a boost, it's easy to heave himself up into the window they just jimmied open. Dean crawls in after him and they pull the window shut behind them before pausing to give their eyes a chance to adjust. Dean goes to stand by the door, listening for any footsteps and Sam goes straight to the filing cabinet with the historical files. He finds the right drawer and starts sifting through the articles.

It's soon obvious that he was unbelievably lucky to find that article last time. There are hundreds of slips of paper in the drawer - some yellowed with age, others clipped out of newspapers, hell, there are even what look to be pages from personal journals. It's all organized in a vaguely chronological order, but not well enough that Sam can easily pinpoint 1938.

"Look in the desk, see if you can find a map or something," Sam whispers to Dean. Even if they find something mentioning the girl's burial, there's no guarantee the place will still have the same name. It could be anywhere, really, but Sam's at least pretty sure it's gotta be on the camp grounds.

Dean nods and starts going through the desk drawers, pulling out a few files here and there only to carefully replace them when they prove to be useless.

It takes another hour of searching, Sam in the filing cabinet and Dean around the rest of the room, until they find something promising. Dean's looking through an old log book which, in addition to row upon row of irrelevant numbers, contains a folded map in the back. The map is old enough that Sam's confident it'll have the right location names. Sam's just picking up what looks like a personal journal, the years 1918-1945 written in script on the front, when there's the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

Sam and Dean spin to stare at each other, then at the closed office door. They have maybe thirty seconds to get out but Sam needs to get what he came for. He glances down at the journal, flips it open to the first page. "Reverend Jack -" Sam snaps it shut and stuffs it in his bag. Perfect.

He shuts the drawer as quietly as he can and finds Dean waiting for him at the window, holding it open and motioning for Sam to hurry. Sam swings himself out and waits for Dean to follow, closing the window behind him as he goes.

They sprint back to the path leading into the woods and Sam can hear Dean laughing beside him. Sam knows how he feels - the rush of adrenaline at almost getting caught, the exhilaration of having succeeded in not only escaping, but finding what they were looking for - it's all enough to light Sam up inside, make him feel more alive than he has in weeks. There's nothing like a good hunt to get his blood pumping.

The hike back seems quicker, Dean behind him the whole way, sometimes walking so close Sam swears he can feel hot breath on the back of his neck and whisper-light touches to his hip, the small of his back, the back of his wrist. He doesn’t call Dean on it.

They don’t talk until they’re stumbling into the cabin.

"So?" Dean asks, gesturing at Sam's backpack. "Where is she?"

Sam shrugs.

"Don't know yet." He pulls the book out of the bag and sits at the table while Dean come to peer over his shoulder.

"Reverend, huh? Good thinking," Dean says, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment before pulling away. Sam sort of wishes he'd left it there longer.

Dean putters around the kitchen, making coffee and a weird breakfast-dinner hybrid of pancakes and hot dogs while Sam reads bits of the book out loud. The reverend was apparently a forgetful man and only included dates for about a quarter of the entries, so it takes Sam a while to find anything relating to Rose's death.

His mouth is full of pancake when he finds the passage and reads it aloud:

"And after lunch was Ms. Avery's funeral, God rest her soul, and her brother was wrought with grief, and he insisted that she be put in the ground immediately, as he wished to have it done and over with. Ms Avery was well loved by the people, of course, though she left no children behind as she was unmarried. They served trout at the reception and Mr. Avery did not eat a crumb."

Dean stares at him.

"Dude was weird. Does it say anything about where she was buried?"

Sam throws him a dirty look.

"I'm getting there."

"Well, get there faster."

"I would if you'd shut up and let me read."

Dean mimes zipping his lip and Sam continues reading.

"In attendance were the... blah blah, he talks about a bunch of people who showed up for the funeral, blah blah, okay, here we go: Ms. Avery was interred under her favorite giant oak, in the shade of which she liked to read when she was a child. Mr. Avery chose the place because she loved it so, and because there is a most beautiful view of the lake, though of course, Ms. Avery shall not enjoy it as she will be in God's arms and not sitting atop her grave."

Dean laughs at that, but Sam frowns in disappointment.

"It doesn't give an actual location. We'll have to go back to Ms. Hamilton's office tomorrow night and try again."

"Actually, we don’t," Dean says, and Sam wants to wipe the smug look off his face almost as much as he wants to kiss the trace of maple syrup clinging to his lower lip. “There’s only one giant oak anywhere around the lake and I bet it’s the one he’s talking about. It’s dead now, but there’s this big rock under it...”

He trails off and looks up to meet Sam’s gaze.

“A headstone?” Sam asks, and Dean nods sheepishly, the smug look gone.

“I should have - ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam cuts in, seeing the chagrined look on Dean’s face. “We couldn’t’ve been sure anyway, I woulda made us go to Ms. Hamilton’s office to check.”

Dean nods down at his coffee.

***

They can’t go back out tonight. The giant oak is on the other side of the lake, a good four hour hike according to Dean. They’ll have to leave tomorrow, in the early evening, in order to arrive after nightfall.

“Why can’t we just go during the day? I mean, I bet ghosts are way less scary -”

“Because,” Sam says, interrupting what was looking to be another excited description of how Dean imagines this spirit’s going to be - the guy really does love his horror films. “What do you think the camp is going to think if they see two guys burning a body by the lake?”

“Oh.”

Sam lies back on his bed. It’s two in the morning and they should be sleeping but this is the part of the hunt where he just wants to be taking action. He knows where she’s buried, all he needs to do is salt and burn the bones and two people’s lives will be saved, but he’s stuck here until tomorrow night, waiting, essentially useless.

Sam’s lying on top of his covers, wearing a towel and nothing else. They took turns showering away the mud from the hike earlier but he hasn’t changed into pajamas like Dean. This is a new situation for him - being the one who wants, rather than the wanted one.

He’s thinking about how to bring it up to Dean when Dean pushes himself off his bed and walks over to Sam’s. Sam scoots over without a word and Dean climbs on beside him.

“You wanna do something?” Dean asks needlessly and Sam nods, already reaching for the towel. He tugs it off and lies back as Dean pulls his own t-shirt and sweatpants off, tossing them to the floor. Sam’s skin prickles, hypersensitive with the need to be touched and he could just reach over, lean over Dean and straddle him, press their bodies together but for some reason he wants Dean to be the one to do it. He wants Dean above him, all over him, pushing inside him. Sam doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean speaks.

“You okay?”

Sam nods and parts his lips on a whine that becomes a quiet “please” and Dean rolls to face him, propped up on one elbow.

“Shh, you’re okay.” Dean brushes one hand down Sam’s arm, then down his chest, down over his hip, just missing his straining cock to grip his thigh and pull it until Sam spreads. Dean brings his hand back up to draw a line over Sam’s collarbones, first one, then the other, then up Sam’s throat, slowly making his way along Sam’s jaw and over to his lips. Dean traces Sam’s parted lips over and over before finally dipping inside, just one finger. He pushes is in and Sam presses his tongue to it, closes his lips and sucks, revelling in the sharp intake of breath from Dean.

Dean brings his wet finger down to circle one nipple, then the other, rubbing until Sam’s writhing and tensing to keep his hips from shifting. When Dean’s finger finally slips back into Sam’s mouth it’s joined by another and his lips close over them instantly, and he’s sucking and moaning and running his tongue over and under and between the digits before he even realizes it.

Dean groans and fucks his fingers in and out of Sam’s mouth a couple of times, muttering curses and praising Sam’s mouth under his breath. Sam gasps when he finds his mouth empty and then again when the wet pads of those fingers are circling his hole.

“Okay?” Dean murmurs against Sam’s ear, and Sam nods frantically, another strained plea falling from his lips.

The very tip of one finger pushes inside Sam and he thinks for a second that he’s going to come, like this, without a single touch to his cock. He holds onto the nonononono in his head, the fact that when he comes, he wants it to be because Dean wanted him to. Told him to.

Dean pushes with his finger, enough to have Sam whining but not enough to actually move deeper and brings his lips back to Sam’s ear.

“You’re so tight, Sam. You have any lube in that bag?”

Sam’s already red, flushed from arousal and the embarrassment of being naked and spread open for Dean, but he feels his face grow even hotter when he nods.

“In- in the bottom pocket. The little one.”

Sam gasps when Dean’s hand disappears but it’s back faster than he thinks is really possible, slick and a little colder. This time, Dean’s finger presses harder, pushing past the tight ring of resistance and into Sam.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, moving back to watch his own finger disappear into Sam’s ass. “You’re so hot, so tight.”

Dean uses his free hand to push Sam’s legs up, folding them against Sam’s torso and instructing him to hold them. A rush of heat follows the order and Sam immediately complies, spreading his own knees with his hands and holding as still as he can, resisting the urge to fuck down onto Dean’s thick finger.

The sting is sharper when Dean works another finger up into Sam, but the stretch has Sam arching his back and digging his fingers into his own thighs, sweat beading on his skin. Dean’s breathing is heavy and he’s leaning in close to watch, the damp warmth of his exhale sending goosebumps up Sam’s thigh, making his cock jerk and pulse precome.

“Tell me how - how you want it,” Dean says, voice stuttering on a soft groan as Sam pushes himself down onto his fingers. Sam tries to answer but instead of words, a garbled moan comes out. He takes a shaky breath and tries again.

“Like... hard, yeah. Oh God, and up, ah, feels good.” Sam can barely get the words out, punctuated with sighs and gasps as Dean pushes his fingers in, scissors them wide then curls them up, pads of his fingers skating over Sam’s prostate. Sam’s cock gives a jerk and his body tenses, shocky pleasure skittering up his spine at the touch. Dean does it again, and again, and Sam can’t hold himself still any more, twisting and writhing, hips rolling constantly.

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it Sam, fuck yourself on my fingers, so good, such a good boy.”

Sam whines in pleasure at the praise, a twinge of embarrassment doing nothing to quell the need to please. He jumps when Dean’s fingertips slip through the mess of precome at the tip of his cock, gathering more from the tiny puddle on his belly before wrapping his hand around Sam’s cock and stroking.

In the end, Sam’s not sure whether it’s the perfect-firm-slippery grip on his cock, the fingers rubbing incessantly at his prostate, or the filthy way Dean murmurs how good, how sweet, how tight Sam is that gets him there, but he shoots all over his stomach and chest with an orgasm that tears through his nerves like electricity, muscles going tense and releasing, over and over, ass clenching at Dean’s fingers.

By the time Sam manages to open his eyes, ass still throbbing in time with rippling aftershocks, cock too sensitive, it’s to find Dean sitting back on his heels, jeans down around his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock and jerking rough and fast. Sam curls himself up and leans down, meeting Dean’s burning gaze as he barely slips his lips over the heavy head of Dean’s cock. Dean lets out a strangled moan and comes, thick ropes landing over Sam’s tongue, his lips, across his cheek, down to his collarbone.

Dean collapses beside him and rummages through the bedding before coming up with a t shirt. He wipes Sam’s chest and stomach, hesitating before cleaning Sam’s face.

“Sorry,” he whispers, running his thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, smearing the come over sensitive pink skin. Sam waits until Dean finally wipes his mouth off before answering.

“Mmf,” is what comes out on his first try, but his mouth seems to work better once Dean settles down beside him, gathering Sam up against his side and wrapping an arm around him. “S’okay, I liked it.”

He can feel Dean smile against his temple, and the even rise and fall of Dean’s chest slowly guides him into sleep.

***

The sun is hanging low in the sky when they head out, each carrying a backpack and a shovel, Sam additionally carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Salt is heavier than you’d think and Dean doesn’t understand why they need so much but for once he’s keeping his mouth shut because Sam’s gone even quieter than usual. Dean feels it too - this tension, like a thousand rubber bands stretched almost to breaking.  


The path they take circumvents the camp, but when they pass near the Big Barn, Dean can hear the chatter of dozens of campers and counselors over dinner. He wonders what Dave’s doing, if Rachel’s still putting up with him, who’s taken over his spot in Skunk cabin. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t miss it - it’s weird, Dean loves camp, looks forward to it all year, but lately it’s been sort of... predictable. It’s the adventure he loves, and camp is feeling less and less like one.

Sam motions for him to stop about a half hour after they pass the camp and Dean follows him out to a boulder overlooking the lake.

“What are we doing?” Dean asks, quiet though no one’s around. Sam hands him a sandwich.

“Dinner. Won’t have time to eat later.” Sam waves the sandwich in Dean’s face. “C’mon.”

Dean takes the sandwich obediently, ignoring the expectant look Sam is giving him.

They eat in silence, Sam twitching every time Dean’s chewing makes any kind of noise, Dean trying hard to eat silently. Before they get back on the trail, Sam turns to Dean.

“Listen, so, I told you it might not be as simple as digging her up and setting her on fire, right?”

Dean nods.

“Sometimes, when we try to break their hold on this plane, the spirit shows up.” The way Sam says it is a little too casual, just enough to have Dean paying attention.

“What, it pops up and says boo?” Dean jokes, though he’s starting to feel a stirring of unexpected fear. He’s ready for this, he wants to do this, and yet...

“No, Dean. Can you grow up for five minutes and take this seriously? I told you this morning that this could be dangerous. This is what I was talking about - you have salt and I brought iron, and there’s iron shot for this,” he says, hefting the shotgun he’s been carrying. “It’s unlikely that she’ll show before we start the fire, but just in case, keep an eye out, okay?”

Sam gives him a look, like Dean’s a child that needs to be reminded five times to tie his shoelaces, and Dean nods obediently.

Sam stares at him for a long moment before they set out again.

***

Digging graves is never a good time. Sam remembers the first time he wanted to help on an actual hunt, not just on research, Mary had him dig up a corpse. It was a low-risk job with his mother watching over him and the ghost was weak anyway, but Sam remembers being thrilled at first. The body hadn’t been under for long though, and whether it was the faint smell of decomposition or just the knowledge that he was a foot away from a rotting corpse, Sam doesn’t know - he ended up retching all over the coffin.

Rose has been dead a good long while, though, so her grave smells like damp earth and nothing else. Sam and Dean are both covered in graveyard mud and Dean keeps slipping and falling to his knees in the dirt. He’s been grumbling since the beginning, about how wet the ground is, about the fact that they buried Rose under a tree with extremely strong roots that apparently grew over the coffin, about the fact that Sam’s been mostly keeping watch and not digging.

That last one’s sort of true, but for one thing, they need someone to keep watch and Sam thinks it should definitely be the guy who can use a gun, and for another, it’s Dean’s first (and probably only) hunt, so he should put in the physical labor. Seniority and all that.

Still, Sam’s in the pit clearing away the last of the dirt alongside Dean when Dean’s clumsiness and general lack of efficiency starts to grate on him. He never seemed like such a weakling before, but tonight he’s turned into a delicate, slow-moving klutz. Sam’s getting more than irritated, he’s getting truly angry. Enraged, really. If Dean wanted to be back at the cabin and warm in his bed, he could be. Sam doesn’t have the luxury of that choice, but Dean does. Instead, he’s out here, making Sam’s job harder.

Dean tosses a shovelful of dirt over the edge of the pit and misses, half of it landing back in the hole, half in Sam’s hair. It’s the last straw and Sam doesn’t even know why - it was an accident and Sam’s been far filthier in his life, but for some reason every speck of dirt on his body feels like it’s digging in, his skin crawling with disgust and resentment.

He throws a punch and Dean jerks back, caught by surprise. He spins to face Sam, face twisted in an helpless mask of bewilderment, before taking a step back that nearly sends him sprawling into the mud. Sam throws his shovel down and shoves Dean back but Dean gets one foot free and plants it in Sam’s stomach, sending him crashing into the dirt.

Dean scrambles out of the pit with Sam on his heels and wheels around to face him, fear written clear across his face. There’s a hot ball of anger in Sam’s gut and he could swear his blood’s on fire with the need to hurt, to finally take what should have always been his.

Dean drops to his knees, hacking and coughing deep enough that Sam feels a twinge of sympathetic pain in his lungs. Somehow, it only fuels the fury - always so sick, always so weak, how they ever have trusted her with everything when she’s -

There’s a little voice in the back of his mind yelling that something’s wrong but his entire body is screaming for blood and he’s lurching forward, arm swinging wildly at Dean, except it’s not Dean kneeling before him. Or it is, but it’s also a frail-looking woman in a plain white dress, dirty blonde hair hanging in front of her face, her hands clasped white-knuckled in her lap.

The sight should stop him short but it doesn’t and Sam’s fist sends Dean and the woman to the ground. There’s another twinge of wrong but it’s wiped away by a fresh wave of anger and Dean isn’t even getting up, so weak, always so fucking helpless.

Sam straddles Dean’s torso, his hands on shoulders that are somehow hard and broad and frail and bony, the face under him shifting from freckle-spattered cheekbones, full, red lips and a strong nose to near-translucent pale skin, deep hollowed cheeks and purple circles under colorless grey eyes.

There’s something shifting in him, too, affection and devotion mingling with anger and envy until he can’t tell which is which.

She doesn’t appear with a flash or a loud crack or even a scream. She’s just sort of... there, standing beside her grave and calmly looking on. She seems surprised when Sam looks up at her.

“This is the part where you kill me,” she says, a kind reminder as if he’d forgotten his line in the play they’re all putting on.

Somehow, the sight of a woman who’s been dead for over eighty years gives Sam something to hold onto. This is something he’s sure is real, this is something he knows.

“Is this what you do?” he asks, his voice raspy and low like it’s never been before. He realizes he’s speaking through clenched teeth, anger still surging strong through him. “Take people and make them live out your death?”

She nods without a hint of shame.

“You provide the anger and I provide the script. We play it out and all that energy - a crime of passion, blood killing blood - keeps me here. Keeps me going until...” She trails off, a confused look tinging her delicate features.

“Until you kill someone else? That’s the entire point of your existence now?” She doesn’t answer but Sam’s caught on something else she said.

“Blood killing blood?”

The body beneath him groans and shifts and Sam looks down. It’s Dean again and Sam heaves a sigh of relief before looking back up to Rose.

“Siblings. Nothing like the anger between siblings - so much jealousy, so much love. It’s the reason I’m dead,” she says simply.

“Actually,” Dean grunts, “you’d probably be dead anyway, you’re like a hundred years old.”

Sam laughs. Rose glares at him and he’s slammed by another hit of anger, the need to rip into Dean, to wrap his fingers around his throat and squeeze... Under him, Dean coughs sickly.

“Siblings,” Dean rasps out.

Sam stares at him. His fingers keep inching toward Dean’s neck but the words knock him out of it, brings him back to himself. It takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Us?” He directs the question at Rose, but he’s looking at Dean. Dean’s staring back at him, but not in disbelief. He looks... thoughtful. And suddenly Sam is thinking. A little brother who died when he was four... And Sam had a brother once, but he left with Dad...

“Is - Your dad’s not -”

“John Winchester,” Dean says. Sam waits for it to hit him - the shock, the realization - but there’s nothing. He’s just... numb.

Numb. No anger, no pesky urge to throttle his... brother.

So he rolls off Dean and runs to the edge of the pit, turning back in time to catch the backpack Dean tosses to him. He pours the entire package of salt in to the sound of familiar unearthly screams. Rose rushes at him but Dean’s there, holding the shotgun all wrong but firing iron through her anyway. It’s just enough to take her out for a moment and Dean takes advantage of it to pour gasoline over the coffin.

Rose reappears and the backpack flies out of Sam’s hands, landing twenty feet away from the grave. She smiles sweetly.

“Now go kill your brother like mine killed me,” she says and Sam can feel it coming back, barely a spark now but ready to roar into an all-consuming rage.

“Sam.”

Sam turns and Dean’s throwing him something else, something smaller than a backpack. He catches it out of reflex and opens his hand to find a matchbox. With a grin, Sam lights two at once and tosses them in before Rose can even open her mouth.

***

The screams are still ringing in Dean’s ears when he picks himself up. Strength is flowing back into his limbs, the cold ache disappearing from his chest and the haziness bleeding away from his vision.

“She gone?” he asks Sam, who’s gathering the equipment and stuffing it back in his backpack. He gives a short nod and doesn’t look back at Dean as he starts to head back to the trail.

Sam slows down after a few minutes and Dean is grateful - the weird ghost illness he just suffered through seems to have left behind a few aches and he’s crashing down from an adrenaline high like he’s never felt.

By the time they get back to the cabin, Dean’s nearly shaking with exhaustion and is starting to consider skipping a shower and going straight to bed.

He’s covered in grave dirt and he can’t stop shaking though, so he throws the pack down and heads straight to the shower. He’s surprised when Sam follows him but he doesn’t stop him. They don’t speak - don’t even make eye contact, crowded into the tiny stall. Sam lets Dean rub soap into his skin, lets his hands linger in places he’s not sure they should. He’s keeping his mind carefully blank, not daring to think and finding it strangely easy - exhaustion probably helps.

Sam stands closer than is necessary the whole time, and just as the water’s turning freezing cold and they’re both scrubbed clean, he leans in until they’re touching in more places than not and presses his forehead into Dean’s shoulder. It only lasts a couple of seconds but the touch is just enough to convince Dean that everything’s going to be okay.

***

Dean’s had time to think about it - he fell asleep immediately that night, but this morning he spent two hours lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and going over and over it. And he’s okay with it. Sam’s his brother - the one he thought was dead. And he’s not dead; neither is Dean’s mom, which in itself is enough of a good thing to make up for all of the bad. Dean wonders where she is, when he can see her again - it hurts that she left, that she took Sam, but Dean figures it was necessary - something about hunting, about protecting Dean from it.

Sam’s outside when Dean finally gets up. He’s doing pushups in the wet grass, shirt off, skin already glistening with sweat and dew. Dean sits on the front steps of the cabin and watches him for a few minutes, Sam’s sharp intakes of breath on every upstroke and his slim, wiry body eliciting a nice thrum of arousal under Dean’s skin. He waits for Sam to sit up and notice him before speaking.

“We should probably talk about last night, huh?” Dean asks. Sam scowls at him.

“I didn’t know, okay.”

Dean stares. Sam rolls his eyes and starts to get up off the grass, reaching for his shirt.

“I didn’t know we were... related. I wouldn’t have -”

The reality of what Sam’s saying clicks and Dean recoils.

“I know! Why would you...”

Sam shrugs.

Dean shakes his head like a dog ridding itself of water and moves on.

“So we’re... brothers.” He lets out the breath he was holding. “It’s weird man, I was always trying to find your name, like it was on the tip of my tongue for what, fourteen years? And I couldn’t ask Dad, he gets weird and quiet if I ever mention you or mom. Sam. That’s it.”

“Yeah, I know my name, thanks,” Sam says irritably as he heads back toward the cabin.

“Hey! Aren’t you - Don’t you wanna... you know, talk? About this?” Dean asks, gesturing between them. Sam jerks his head: No. He grabs his towel and heads for the shower.

“Want some company?” Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow. Sam completely ignores him.

***

The next three days are torture for Sam. Avoiding Dean while living with him in a tiny cabin requires him to be inventive and cruel in ways he isn’t used to using against people. He shuts Dean down hard enough that Dean stops talking, stops asking him about Mary and instead sits on his bed not saying a word for hours at a time. The contrast with Dean’s usual talkative, ridiculously charming attitude makes something in Sam’s chest ache.

When Dave and Stan finally come to get them and they hike back down to the main camp, Sam watches Dean paste on a smile and joke around with his friends. He shoots one awkward, tense look back at Sam, and Sam gets it - Dean’s probably still worried Sam’s going to tell everyone a counselor fucked him. He’s not though. He has nothing left to gain by it.

He sneaks into the office and uses the phone to call Mary the next morning and she says

someone can be there in a day.

***

Being back at camp with Sam is a relief and fresh wave of discomfort. Over the past few days, Deans’ gotten used to Sam’s cold silence. He wants to keep trying, keep talking until Sam has no choice but to respond, but something’s stopping him. There’s something too close to panic behind Sam’s distance and it keeps Dean from pushing.

Dean’s in the arts and crafts room helping a kid unknot a friendship bracelet (after two weeks of lakewater and sun the knot is basically a lumpy, faded blue rock) when he overhears Brad talking to one of the girls.

“You hear that Campbell kid is leaving early? Guess he figured out camp’s not for him.”

The girl says something Dean can’t hear over his suddenly pounding heart and Brad laughs.

“Yeah, well if you hate everyone, this isn’t the place for you.”

Dean reaches for the scissors and snips the bracelet off before clapping the kid on the shoulder and taking off. He barely arrives in time - Sam’s already sitting on the bench at the end of the driveway and Dean can hear a car winding between the trees toward them.

“Hey.”

Sam doesn’t look up.

“Is you- mom coming to pick you up? Can I see her?” It’s not the first thing he meant to say but he can’t stop thinking about it, wondering if she looks like the fuzzy picture in his head, like the creased photo Dad keeps in his wallet.

Sam shakes his head and Dean’s heart sinks a little.

“Can I have a phone number or something?” Dean asks and Sam snorts.

“We don’t have a phone. We don’t even live anywhere.”

“How will I reach you?” Dean asks, getting a little desperate. Sam finally looks up at him as the car - a beat up Camaro - crunches to a stop next to them.

“You won’t. You were never supposed to know we were alive.” Dean opens his mouth but Sam cuts him off. “Trust me, it’s for the best. You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know what we are. Be grateful for that.”

He gets in the car and the minute it’s gone, Dean hates himself for not fighting, for not grabbing Sam and wrapping his arms around him and not ever ever letting him leave.

***

**Three Months Later**  


They roll into town on a Friday afternoon and Sam can’t stop himself from scanning every street, every car that passes by the diner, every face walking by for Dean. There’s a nervous tightness in his muscles, a flutter in his stomach every time he remembers they’re here.

He didn’t say anything when Mary mentioned the name of the next town. Didn’t let his eyes go wide or his breath quicken, didn’t mention that he saw Dean’s address on his duffel, that he knows exactly where his father lives and they’re going to be so fucking close.

He can tell from the lines around her mouth and her knuckles white on the steering wheel that Mary knows it too. He wasn’t sure at first why she took this job, figured she could have handed it off to someone else, until he noticed piles of newspaper clippings, the stacks of books, the way she cleaned every gun the own before coming. Her son’s in this town - she’s not trusting this job to anyone else.

She’s also not letting Sam come along for anything. She leaves him with orders to stay in the motel room, don’t go outside unless the building is on fire, you hear me Sam? He grunts and she rolls her eyes at him before crossing the room to drop a light kiss on his brow. The gesture is unusual and he wonders if she’s nervous (a ridiculous thought, Mary Campbell is never nervous), but he doesn’t comment on it. She’s been gentler with him since his first case - she must have noticed how much quieter he is, probably thinks it’s something about the trauma of hunting.

It’s not that he’s hung up on Dean. It’s not. It’s just... it’s like he was hungry before, only he never noticed, but now he’s had one bite of pizza and he’s starving for more but the pizza’s been taken away and he can’t get it back. The worst part is the pizza isn’t sex in this analogy, it’s just... Dean. It’s having someone at his side, someone on his side, someone to share the fear with. Sam’s always known his older brother was better off without him around - he’d have a longer life expectancy at the very least - but now he’s actually damaged the guy by his very presence. Which, Sam thinks, shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. He knows what he is. He tries not to dwell on it.

Sam thinks about studying after Mary leaves, eyeing his books from across the room. He hasn’t really been homeschooled since he reached high school level math and reading, he took over his own education at that point. Mary buys him any books he wants and if he needs any extra help understanding particle physics or multivariable calculus, he calls the Roadhouse and asks Ash.

He’s too wound up to study though, so he orders a pizza under a fake name and flips on the TV. There’s a knock at the door only five minutes later, too early for pizza, so he grabs his gun and peers through the peephole.

It’s Dean.

Sam can’t breathe, stuck to the peephole, clutching the door like a lifeline. He looks the same and different - his hair’s shorter, darker, and he’s wearing a leather jacket Sam doesn’t remember seeing. He’s staring straight at Sam like he knows he’s there.

“C’mon Sam, open up. I know you’re in there, gotta talk to you.”

Every bad thing he did this summer is coming crashing back, along with every memory of how very much he wanted it. He knew this would happen, knew he couldn’t run away from Dean, and if he’s being honest with himself, he knew he’d see Dean on this hunt.

“Dude, I can hear you breathing, open the door.”

Sam doesn’t put his gun down - they’re here on a hunt and there’s no guarantee the thing that’s killing people around here isn’t wearing Dean right now - while he rolls back the deadbolt, unhooks the chain and opens the door.

Dean steps forward too fast and Sam raises his weapon, muttering “Cristo” just loud enough. Dean raises his eyebrows and gives him a look and Sam heaves a sigh and lowers the gun. He finds himself wrapped in Dean’s arms, too tight and not tight enough, lungs screaming and heart pounding at the scent of Dean, the feel of his warm, hard body against Sam’s, the way Dean’s mouth is pushed against Sam’s neck - not really a kiss, but not exactly brotherly.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks when he’s gotten himself awkwardly untangled from Dean. Dean laughs.

“Could ask you the same thing.” Sam doesn’t say anything and finally Dean goes on. “I wanna show you something.”

It’s the most surreal thing, walking out of that motel room with Dean, seeing that 1967 Chevy Impala that Mary never shuts up about sitting in the parking lot. Sam realized a long time ago that it was her way of saying she missed John, but still - he’s grown a sort of second-hand nostalgia for the car and getting to slide into the passenger seat feels like a dream.

Dean pulls out of the driveway and pushes a tape into the deck. It’s Metallica and Sam smiles briefly to himself, pulling the shoebox of tapes out from under the seat to go through them. Yup, every single one matches up with Mary’s collection, though Dean’s missing the Beatles and a couple of others.

Dean glances over and laughs.

“They’re all my dad’s old tapes, kind of came with the car when he gave it to me.”

Sam nods awkwardly.

“So, how’ve you been?” Dean asks, keeping his eyes on the road, all forced casualness.

“Fine.”

Dean looks over at that and Sam curses his stupid voice for cracking and his goddamn hands for shaking and his heart, God, it’s beating so fast Sam’s sure Dean can hear it over the roar of the engine, logic be damned.

Dean doesn’t say anything and Sam focuses on memorizing every turn of the road, every noticeable tree, even though it doesn’t seem likely he’ll have to come back alone. It’s a habit and it’s good for keeping his mind off the body heat he swears he can feel radiating across the bench seat, the way he can still feel Dean’s hands on him.

They pull up outside what looks to be an abandoned warehouse and Sam’s rethinking his previous certainty that Dean’s not possessed. Or a shifter. Or something else, God knows he could be anything.

But then Dean cracks a smile and Sam breathes a little easier as they get out of the car and Dean leads him over to an open door. Sam hears raised voices and throws Dean a questioning look, but Dean just nods at the door like go ahead, so Sam does.

Sam’s seen exactly one picture of his father - Mary keeps it tucked in her book of exorcisms and Sam made a photocopy once when she was on a hunt. He keeps it in his journal and doesn’t look at it very often.

Still, it’s enough that he recognizes the man standing in the room, facing Sam but unable to see him. Sam’s looking through a gap in some pipes and he wants to turn to Dean and demand to know what’s going on but he can’t tear his eyes away from his father. He recognizes his own dark brown hair, the shape of his eyes. He jumps a little when he sees the other person in the

room. It’s Mary.

***

“We can make it safe. If you tell me how, I can make it safe for them. Sam can go to school, Mary. He can have a normal life. He doesn’t have to be... like this.”

Mary doesn’t even spare John a glance.

“You could come back. You don’t have to stay all the time, you can still hunt the demon, but you could come be with me.”

That gets her attention, but not in the way John wants.

“You think I’m just going to give up everything we’ve built, every wall of protection around you and our boys, just so I can come play family with you?” Mary’s tone is harsh, her eyes flashing anger. John doesn’t look away.

“I think we can find a way to make it safe. If you teach me how, I can protect them too. It’s worth it, Mary. It’s worth it if we can all be together. Don’t tell me you don’t want that. Don’t tell me you’ve changed that much.”

Mary doesn’t say anything, just stares John down like she’s trying to force him to look away, to shrug and give up. He doesn’t and the moment goes on, one beat too long, then a minute, then Dean’s tugging Sam away.

***

Dean manages to get Sam back out to the car, though he clearly wants to keep an eye on their parents. Sam doesn’t say anything until they’re both sitting in the Impala, tension so thick Dean thinks he might choke on it.

“How did you...” Sam trails off but Dean gets it. He grins, because he’s pleased with himself but also because Sam doesn’t sound too angry.

“I faked those reports, got them in the system. I figured you guys would show, it’s exactly your kind of thing.”

“Wait, so no one actually died?” Sam looks pissed and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“How else was I supposed to talk to you?” Dean asks, and Sam gives him an exasperated look.

“What’s there to talk about?” Sam asks and Dean snorts. He’s so fucking stubborn. Just like Dad, Dean thinks.

“Oh, I don’t know, how about the fact that we’re brothers? And that we...”

Sam flinches and looks away.

“You made a mistake. You didn’t know -”

“I would have done it anyway. Maybe not right away, but it would have happened eventually,” Dean says and it’s true. He’s had a lot of time to think this over and this is the conclusion he’s come to. “I don’t regret it.” Sam’s gaze jumps to his, searching, like he’s trying to find any hint of a lie. “Do you?”

Sam hesitates.

“I’m not... There’s stuff about me you don’t know,” Sam says miserably.

“Well, yeah. Look, whatever stuff you’ve done as a hunter isn’t -”

“No,” Sam interrupts. “I mean, about who I am. I’m... I’m not really a hundred percent... human.”

Dean stares at him until Sam sighs and explains.

***

Sam stopped talking two minutes ago and Dean still hasn’t said a word. He’s starting to get nervous, hunter’s training preventing him from fidgeting too much but it can’t do anything for the way his brain keeps spinning out all the different ways Dean could reject him right now. Tell him he’s a monster, he’s not really  his brother, that Dean’s disgusted they ever touched.

“So Mom took you and ran because some weird blood got in your mouth?” Dean finally asks.

“Sort of,” Sam says, surprised. “The demon that put it there is still around, and Mom thinks he’s going to come after me, so she wanted to be able to protect me. That’s why she took me.”

“And why’d she leave us?” Dean asks. Sam furrows his brow - isn’t it obvious?

“Because,” Sam says. “She couldn’t protect all three of us. The demon could have hurt you two to get to us.”

Dean turns to glare at Sam.

“That’s bullshit. It’s like Dad said: we can learn to protect ourselves. Then there’ll be four of us and just one of him. We can be safe together.”

Sam tries to picture it. There’s nothing - a blank.

“That wouldn’t work. You’d have to quit school and John would have to leave his job and -”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Dean cuts in. “We could stay here. We don’t have the same last name, no one would find you here. You could go to school here.”

Sam’s quiet for a while. He’s starting to see the picture Dean’s painting and it’s like telling a sixty-year old who dreamed of being an astronaut when he was five that NASA wants to hire him. It hits him in those deepest places he doesn’t ever look, the parts of him that still want to go to college, to have friends who don’t hunt and maybe own a dog, to be normal. It’s not a desire he lets himself feel anymore - what’s the point?

But this is what Dean’s offering him, what John’s offering both of them. A safe place. So he

nods slowly and watches the smile grow on Dean’s face.

***

It’s awkward when John and Mary walk out of the warehouse and spot the Impala. John rolls his eyes and Mary pauses, taking in the sight of the car and the two boys sitting in the front. Dean gets out the second he spots them and practically runs over, sparing his father a brief apologetic glance before wrapping his arms around Mary. She smiles unusually soft and runs a hand over his hair.

Sam gets out slowly and makes his way over to the others more reluctantly. He stops in front of John, awkward as all hell. John offers his hand and Sam shakes it almost shyly, meeting his eye for the first time.

“You’ve grown up some,” John says gruffly and Sam’s mouth quirks in a quick smile.

“It’s late, but how about some dinner?” Mary asks, meeting Sam’s eye in a silent question. Sam dips his head minutely.

“There’s a diner in town that’s open late,” John answers. “Maybe then you boys can explain how you set this up.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Dean declares innocently and Sam whaps him in the shoulder, eliciting a laugh from John and a stern look from Mary.

The four of them make their way to the Impala, Dean tossing the keys to John, who hands them to Mary.

“Wanna drive?”

 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally based on The Parent Trap.


End file.
